Acta Haematologica
by coppermoss
Summary: When Hermione saves Snape's life by giving him a blood transfusion, a strange magical connection develops between them. They learn to live with it, and each other. Please read and review! Rated M for language now, potential lemons later.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is my first fic after an 8-year-long hiatus. Reviews are welcome/encouraged, but please be gentle. Of course, the HP universe and all characters therein belong to Rowling. **

As Hermione Granger stumbled back up the tunnel away from the Shrieking Shack where her former Potions master lay dying, or dead, she wasn't sure which, her mind raced, replaying everything she'd ever known about Severus Snape. It wasn't much; pieces she'd picked up here and there, old newspaper clippings, the little Harry had told her about their Occlumency lessons. And, of course, her observations of him at Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place. She ran through it all, cataloging, rearranging, discarding. There was still something missing; the pieces didn't fit. His request to Harry, the way he gazed into his face without a hint of loathing - in one horrible, exhilarating moment it all snapped into place.  
"Fucking hell," she whispered, freezing in her tracks. "He's been ours all along." It was the only possible explanation for what she'd just witnessed, for his behavior, for the holes in the narrative she'd put together concerning life at Hogwarts after the Trio had left. Though she didn't understand the details of the whys or hows of his duplicity, his marvelous, heroic duplicity, for the first time in her life, she chose action over further thought. A virtuous, miserable life, a second chance for the double-crosser hung in the balance, and she turned and began to speed back towards the Shack.  
"Hermione -"  
"I'll be right behind you. Harry, you'll need to look at those memories. They'll show you I'm right. Ron, I promise, I swear, I'll be just a moment."  
"You're not - he's a traitor, Hermione, he killed Dumble-"  
"GO." She kept her voice low, but her tone was icy, and, certain she was outside the reach of the Hogwarts wards, she turned on her heel and Disapparated.  
She reappeared instantly at Snape's side. He was still alive, but only just. She took a deep breath and shoved her hand into her bag, feeling around for the distinctive box she'd stowed there weeks before.  
Uncorking her bottle of dittany with her teeth, she dumped the last of it onto his neck, glad he was unconscious as his flesh roiled and hissed. Next came bloodmoss and spider's silk which she pressed into the still-oozing puncture wounds, and she bound it all together with a bandage she'd pinched from a paramedic outside of Cotswold. She covered him with the paramedic's tin blanket and a woolen one she'd lifted from a laundry line in Ireland and felt his pulse. It was weak and thready; the pool of blood beneath him was too large.

She knew that the snake must have been milked of its venom recently, or Snape would never have lived long enough to retrieve his memories for Harry. That meant the biggest issue was blood loss. She tipped the last of her Replenishing Potion into his mouth and massaged his throat to help him swallow it. She knew it wasn't enough to keep him alive, but every little bit helped. Hands trembling slightly, she unraveled the mess of plastic tubing she'd pinched for just this eventuality and uttered a quick prayer to whichever god might be listening to let this work.

She shoved up his sleeve and the needle into the crook of his elbow, sending the bag of saline solution to hover above him with one flick of her wand. Tearing a strip from the hem of her shirt, she fashioned a tourniquet and bound it around her upper arm. She gritted her teeth and shoved a second needle into her vein and watched, mesmerized, as a line of crimson began to creep toward a second bag. Touching the tip of her wand to the pool of blood beneath his head, she murmured the spell she'd invented that would reveal his blood type, and she watched with detached pleasure as it worked, gold rivulets in the blood spelling out "AB+" slowly.  
"Oh, thank God," she whispered, and for the first time allowed herself a glimmer of hope. She hadn't been able to practice the charms she'd theorized would allow donation of one blood type to another incompatible one, and she hadn't fancied field-testing them quite like this. Hermione was not one to believe in omens, but she couldn't deny that he was AB+, the universal recipient, boded well.  
She rolled up his other sleeve, unconsciously hissing as she revealed the Dark Mark. Once she found the vein and slid the needle in, she rearranged the series of locks and tubes with a wave of her wand. Carefully she stood, taking care to disturb the tubing as little as possible, and she watched as her blood flowed down the tube, through the bag, and into his arm.  
"_Aguamenti_," she whispered, and drank greedily from the tip of her wand. If she stayed hydrated and took Pepper-Up potion, she figured she could give him two, maybe two-and-half -and still be able to fight, at least for a while. Judging from the sounds outside, a little while was all that would be needed, anyway.

Time dragged on, and Hermione found she was becoming lightheaded. She rummaged in her bag and came up with Pepper-Up and a package of stale biscuits, which she savored before downing the potion in one. Immediately her head cleared and she felt stronger. Finally, the needle in her arm glowed blue and she tugged it out, binding her arm tightly. She repeated the maneuver with Snape, but left the saline port in. His pulse was stronger, and she tucked the blanket around him tighter with a grim sort of pride.  
"I'll come back for you," she whispered into his ear, "I hope."  
Biting back tears, she turned on the spot and Disapparated.

***

The battle was over, Voldemort, vanquished, and Hermione swayed on the spot. The only thing in the world she wanted was to sleep, but she had one thing left to do. Leaving Ron with his family, her shirt still wet from his tears and Molly's, she turned wearily on her heel, the wards of Hogwarts long since destroyed, and Disapparated to the Shack.

Snape's eyes fluttered open as she knelt over him.  
"Granger," he croaked, his voice shattered, "What -"  
"We won," she whispered, squeezing his hand, "It's over."  
He closed his eyes, looking utterly peaceful, and somehow she pulled him up, dragged him into half a fireman's carry, and staggered into nothingness.

***  
When she woke, she found herself nestled between crisp white sheets, sunshine streaming in through an open window. Her entire body ached, but she'd been worse off, so she decided to try to chance sitting up. Snape lay in the bed next to hers, clean bandages on his neck, looking pale, but clearly out of any immediate danger. She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, and looked around. The room was unfamiliar, but if the amount of tartan covering every available surface was anything to go by, they were in Professor McGonagall's quarters. Hermione swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, blinking back a wave of dizziness. Almost immediately, the door opened and Madame Pomfrey bustled in, glaring at her.  
"Bed," she ordered. "Now."  
Hermione obeyed, but remained sitting upright.  
"How is he?" she asked stubbornly, glancing over at Snape again.  
"He'll live," said Madame Pomfrey, her mouth a tight line, and the door opened again before she could say any more.  
"Hermione," yelped Ron, Harry, and Ginny in unison, practically tripping over each other in their haste to get to her.  
"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?" Ron continued thunderously, his eyes dark as he advanced.  
"He never doublecrossed us, Ron, I told you -"  
"You didn't even know that when you - Harry didn't see the memories until - tell her, Harry!"  
Harry shook his head slowly, and looked Hermione in the eye. "Thank you," he whispered, and ruffled her hair.  
Hermione smiled weakly up at him as Ron sputtered. Ginny, strangely, remained silent at Harry's side, watching Ron.  
"I don't understand it, Hermione. Why did you risk your life for that greasy git-"  
At this, Ginny made a move for her wand, but Hermione shook her head and said, sharply, "_Ronald_."  
He froze, frowning down at her, and she chose her words carefully, hoping she wasn't too off-base.  
"Ron, there wasn't anything I could do for Fred. You know that. If there were, I would have helped him, just like I helped Professor Snape. I promise. And you're right, I shouldn't have galloped straight back into battle, but it's not like I had much of a choice there. I hardly risked my life for him. It was just a couple pints of blood."  
Madame Pomfrey made a dissatisfied sound from the corner, and Ron and Ginny both grimaced.  
"Blood?" Ron hissed, obviously horrified.  
"Yes, of course - oh, honestly, you two, your father is mad about Muggles. How is it you don't know anything about their - _our_ technology?"  
She explained briefly about blood donation, banking, and transfusion. Ginny looked impressed, but Ron wrinkled his nose.  
"Can't they just take a potion?" he asked in disgust.  
"Honestly, Ron," Hermione began, voice shrill, and was almost relieved when Madame Pomfrey stepped in.  
"Enough. She's tired and you're agitating her. Out. Out!"  
Ron stomped away, followed closely by Ginny, who was reaching for her wand again, but Hermione grabbed Harry's hand. She gave Madame Pomfrey a pleading glance and mouthed "one minute." The matron threw up her hands and turned away.  
"Why?" she asked him quickly and quietly. "Why'd he do it?"  
"Love," Harry said simply.  
"Your mum?"  
"Yes. How'd you put it together?"  
"Eyes," Hermione whispered.  
Harry nodded.  
"And Dumbledore?" she asked, heart pounding. That Snape had killed Dumbledore was incontrovertible, and had almost been her sticking point.  
"They'd planned it. He didn't want to, but Dumbledore - he _made_ him. It was awful, Hermione. I can't – It was just awful."  
She nodded, and glanced over at the matron, who was fuming.  
"You'd better go," she told him, squeezing his hand "I know you've just won the war, for us and all, but it's Madame Pomfrey. She'll have you out on your ear."  
He smiled crookedly at her, and she pulled him down and kissed his forehead.  
"Well done, Harry," she said, and pushed him gently toward the door.  
"Likewise," he muttered gruffly, and was gone.

As soon as the door latched behind Harry, Madame Pomfrey strode over with a bottle of unpleasant-looking potion. Hermione eyed it warily.

"Replenishing Potion," the matron explained, pouring it into a small glass and shoving it at her. Hermione downed it in one.

"Why are you so angry?" she asked quietly, looking up into Madame Pomfrey's haggard face. She sighed and perched at the foot of the bed.

"Hermione...What you did was foolish. Incredibly brave and selfless, but foolish. I don't even know where to begin. You could have sent him into hemolysis."

Hermione bristled. "He's AB+; I checked before I started the transfusion."

"Checked how?"

Hermione explained about her spell, and Poppy had the grace to look impressed.

"Very well, but you can't have cross-matched it, too."

Hermione shrugged. "There wasn't time. I had to take a calculated risk."

"Apparently. Did you even consider the magical implications for mixing blood? There's a reason we don't transfuse in the Wizarding world, Hermione."

Hermione swallowed. She'd wondered, of course, during the course of her research, but had brushed it aside, assuming that the focus on blood was a rhetorical device used by bigots. She cursed inwardly. There were twelve highly important uses for dragon's blood; she should have extrapolated to conclude that wizarding blood would be equally powerful, or, at the very least, not without risk when used in large quantities.

"What _are _the implications?" she asked, her voice small, and to her surprise, the older woman shrugged.

"I can't be sure at this point. His aptitudes may change; he may need a new wand. It's possible he'll have a connection to your magic, your spells, though what the nature of that might be, I can't say. Nothing in the literature is clear or helpful; most blood magic is done on a much, much smaller scale. You seem to have been the first to attempt a wizarding transfusion-" A gong sounded somewhere in the distance, and Madame Pomfrey got to her feet and hurried out without another word.

Hermione bit her lip and resisted the urge to run off to the library. Madame Pomfrey would probably tie her to her bed if she found out, and besides, Hermione dreaded to see what state the library was in. She settled for distraction, digging around in her bag, eventually giving up and wordlessly Summoning _A Brief Histoire of Magickal Law_. She wanted to be prepared in case she had to testify at Snape's trial.  
An hour later, Madame Pomfrey had still not returned, and Hermione was deep in a section on the legalities of inquisition under Veritaserum. She was stiff and sore, with a headache to boot, and she held her wand to her temple, murmuring the charm that would ease the pain for an hour or so.  
A low groan from the next bed made her jump. She quickly transfigured her flimsy excuse for a hospital gown into fluffy dressing gown and leaped out of bed. He groaned again and murmured something, and she leaned closer.

"What was that, Professor?" she asked softly, carefully pushing his hair from his face so she could read his lips, and this time could hear his response.

"That tickled."

Instantly, Hermione removed her hand, wondering just how ticklish you'd have to be for hair-pushing to trigger it. She sat down next to him on the bed and smiled as he opened his eyes a sliver.  
"How are you?" she asked. "Can I get you anything?"  
"Water-" he croaked, and added, almost as an afterthought, "-please."  
Hermione ran through every conversation they'd ever had as well as every conversation she'd ever overheard him having; he'd never once said 'please.' Bugger. Perhaps the blood loss had affected his personality; perhaps he was brain-damaged. She searched for a clean cup, and settled for rinsing out the one that had previously contained her Replenishing Potion. She murmured "_Aguamenti_," and Snape twitched.  
"Stop that," he whispered. "I told you, it tickles."  
Comprehension dawned. "You're feeling my magic?"  
"Apparently. What did you -?"  
She interrupted him. "What do you mean, it tickles?"  
He paused, apparently weighing his response. "I'm not sure," he said finally. "Do something else. Something small," he added, as he tried to sit up. Hermione took up her wand and used it to rearranged his pillows, noting the wry tug at the corner of his mouth.  
"The closest approximation, I think, is a sneeze that won't come," he said at last, settling back. "Thank you."  
Please and thank you over the course of one short conversation. He certainly had sustained some sort of head injury. Hypoxia? Perhaps some sort of transient ischemic attack?  
"I should let Madame Pomfrey know that you're up," Hermione said at last. "Do you mind if I cast a Patronus?" It was odd, asking his permission to perform magic.  
"Go ahead," he whispered, closing his eyes.  
Hermione gripped her wand firmly and followed suit. _The war is over,_ she thought firmly. _Voldemort is dead. We can move on with our lives._ It should have been a happy thought, the happiest, really, but suddenly images of the broken Weasley family and Ron's angry face swam into her mind's eye, and when she tried to cast the spell, only a faint silver mist emanated from the tip of her wand.  
"Only spell I've ever had trouble with," she muttered, embarrassed, and tried again. _Mum and Dad,_ she thought fiercely. _I'll see them again soon._  
But even as she drew breath to utter the words, she thought of the twin blank, unfocused looks on their faces as she cast the false memory charm on them, and she knew if she tried her Patronus again, it would fail.  
Eyes still closed, she heard Snape shift slightly in bed. _He's alive. He gets a second chance. _I_ saved him. _My_ research.  
_"_Expecto patronum_."  
With more effort than it had ever taken, she forced the silver otter from the tip of her wand, and it staggered off, looking decidedly rough around the edges. Snape gasped.  
"I felt that," he said, looking at her wide-eyed. "Why - what did you do to your parents?"  
Hermione frowned. How had he known? He was weak, wandless, not looking at her; there was no way he'd performed Legilimency. It had to be their newfound connection, her blood in his veins. Perhaps because the Patronus was, necessarily, a spell fraught with emotion, he, through her magic, would sense some of her feelings. She would have to be careful not to fail at casting another one. He deserved peace, happiness, rest.  
"They're in Australia," she told him softly. "I removed all their memories of me. I had to keep them safe. I couldn't – I wouldn't have been as effective, worrying about them all the time. They're Monica and Wendell Wilkins now, two childless dentists living in Brisbane. The charm should be reversible, but if it's not – well, then it's not. They won't know the difference."

"I see," he said, his voice very low. His hand twitched on the quilt, but he stilled it. They sat in silence for a while, avoiding eye contact, and Hermione was glad when Madame Pomfrey bustled back in.  
"Hermione, I just got your Patronus, but Kingsley Shacklebolt is demanding to have a word with you and Professor Snape. Alone. I told him no, but he insisted. He has five minutes. How are you feeling, Severus?" She waved her wand at him, muttering a string of what had to be diagnostic spells.  
He shrugged. "Alive."  
She let out an inelegant snort. "You have Hermione to blame for that."  
"So I gathered."  
Poppy fixed them with an inquisitive glare and seemed ready to pepper them with questions when Kinglsey swept in, his wand out. Before Hermione knew what she was doing, she had moved to stand between Kinglsey and Snape, her wand trained on the much taller man.  
"Excuse us, Poppy," he said smoothly but firmly, and she obeyed, pausing only slightly before slinking out, closing the door firmly behind her.

"Hermione, lower your wand."  
"No."  
"Hermione-"  
"He's on our side. I'll swear it before the Minister for Magic if I have to, you can pump us full of Veritaserum, Harry will give you the Professor's memories, and you can question Dumbledore's portrait. There's precedent for that, I just looked it up. I swear to God, Kingsley, if you so much as _look_ at him the wrong way-" She broke off, realizing he had dropped his wand and was standing, hands raised, smiling slightly. After a moment she lowered her wand and climbed back into bed without a word.  
Kingsley looked between the two of them for what seemed like a long time, clearly somewhat unnerved by Hermione's ferocious defense of her former professor. Approaching slowly, he sat at the edge of her bed, the mattress creaking under his considerable bulk.  
"Severus," he said, bowing his head. "From what I've heard from Potter, it seems - I, we, the Order, the Ministry, we owe you an apology."  
Hermione's jaw dropped. This wasn't at all what she had been expecting.  
"There will have to be a trial, of course," he continued, glancing sidelong at Hermione, "But that'll be mostly for restoring your public image. There's no way you won't be cleared of all charges and awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class."  
Snape inclined his head a fraction of an inch; if the news pleased him in any way, his face did not betray it.  
"The press is already going wild, though I've no idea who they got the story from. You might want to arrange a hideout for the next several months. Harry has offered Grimmauld Place in the interim, or you could go abroad. Complicating things, of course, is the nature of your entanglement with Hermione."  
He paused, and Snape raised an eyebrow.  
"You haven't explained yet?" Kingsley asked, and Hermione shook her head.  
"He's only just come 'round."  
"Severus, Hermione saved your life by, among other measures, transfusing a considerable quantity of her blood into you. There's bound to be magical fallout, some of which I'm sure you've already noticed."  
They nodded, and Kingsley turned slightly so he was talking more to Hermione than to Snape now.  
"I believe Madame Pomfrey explained that this is uncharted territory."  
Hermione nodded again, and met his eyes for the first time since she'd yelled at him. He was looking at her kindly.  
"It would be wise, then, if you stay close together until the precise nature and limits of your connection are determined. I imagine the two of you will be able to puzzle it through and publish some rather impressive research," he added, smiling.  
Hermione glanced over at Snape, whose expression was still inscrutable. She started to babble.  
"I have to go to Australia to retrieve my parents, God knows if I'll be able to find them, much less reverse – Anyway, I don't have a home or a job, I haven't finished school, didn't take my N.E... I don't know what I'm going to do..." She looked back at Kingsley pleadingly.  
"I imagine the two of you are rather in the same boat. You can figure it out together," he told her reassuringly. Hermione repressed a giggle, briefly imagining just how well it would go if she and Snape were to have a nice chat over tea about their hopes and dreams for the future.

"And as for a job," Kingsley continued, "I'd be happy to recommend you for just about any post you'd like at the Ministry. You're the most competent young woman I've met in an age, and we have a number of vacancies."  
Hermione went pink at the compliment. "I'm afraid I'm not interested in Auror training," she demurred. "I've had enough haring after evil to last me a lifetime."  
Kingsley smiled broadly. "Which is why it's good that I'm Minister for Magic, at least in the interim. I said any post, and I meant any post."  
"Minister for Mag- Oh, shit. Oh, Christ. Bollocks." Hermione's hands flew to her mouth. She had threatened the Minister for Magic at wandpoint, and now she was swearing at him.  
A dry creaking sound distracted her from her mortification. Snape was chuckling.  
_Chuckling.  
_Hermione heard Kingsley's impossibly low laugh and finally allowed herself to giggle. If Severus Snape could chuckle after the eighteen years he'd just had, she could jolly well join him.

***

Severus woke early the next morning feeling better than he had in years. It was amazing what a hearty meal, a good night's sleep, and the downfall of the most evil wizard of the last two centuries could do for the humours. He stretched and slid out of bed. He didn't feel like he'd been on the brink of death less than forty-eight hours earlier, save for the bandage on his neck. Poppy had explained that the residual venom on Nagini's fangs meant the puncture would heal more slowly than normal, but he was used to working wounded. Even a Death Eater as trusted and valued as he had been was punished, brutally, now and again.

He took up his wand from the bedside table, pleased to find it intact and returned to him. Shacklebolt must have meant what he'd said, then. He flicked it experimentally; gold and purple sparks burst from the tip. That was odd. The ones he usually produced were white. Frowning, he transfigured his hospital gown into jeans and a jumper. The spell worked, though the jeans were dark blue instead of the black he had intended, and the jumper was a soft cashmere v-neck rather than his normal woolen turtleneck. He rubbed a thoughtful finger along the cuff, then closed his eyes.

It had never been so easy to cast a Patronus, probably because the Dark Mark had all but disappeared since the Downfall, taking with it the pressing threat of discovery and pain as well as the connection to its master. The promise of a new life, peace, a _future _was enough for the spell to work instantaneously, almost before he'd finished saying the words. And just as instantaneously, he knew something was very, very wrong. He opened his eyes. Instead of the doe, _his_ doe, his one remaining link to Lily save her spawn, there was great crow, bigger than any he'd seen in life, perched on the footboard of Granger's bed, surveying him with its head cocked.

He let out a strangled sort of moan and banished it with a flick of his wand. He sank back onto the bed, his head in his hands. He supposed it was fitting. Lily was gone, and the task he'd appointed himself in her memory was over. He'd seen her, briefly, as he hovered between life and death, and she'd smiled warmly at him before Granger and her unerring meddlesomeness yanked him firmly back to this side of the veil. And now he was free, and his Patronus was finally his own. _At least it's not a bat_, he thought wryly, digging the heels of his palms into his burning eyes. Although a bat would have made more sense, as a mammal. Granger's was an otter, and her magic had obviously affected, or infected, his. Why had it not touched his Patronus? He looked over and found himself face to face with her.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked somewhat more roughly than he'd intended.

"Long enough," she replied, uncowed. "It changed, didn't it?"

He nodded.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, and he felt a stab of sadness that didn't belong to him.

"Don't," he almost pleaded, his own grief still too raw and present. Her eyes widened a bit, and the sadness grew for a moment, then subsided.  
"Right," she said briskly after a long pause in which they'd done nothing but stare at each other, "I'm going to pop off for a shower. Poppy should be here in an hour to do some diagnostics. After that, we can try to find a quiet spot to experiment in."  
"What?" he asked rather dully, still half-lost in thoughts about Lily.  
"Our - thing." She flapped one hand vaguely, and hopped out of bed. "Connection, or whatever you want to call it. We're going to have to figure it out sooner or later, and I'd prefer sooner, if you don't mind. I asked Poppy last night if she'd take some blood samples from each of us. Then I imagine we'll want to do some simple magic, though I see you've started that already, and I was hoping we could duel each other and see what happens. I'm not sure we'll be able to harm one another. Oh, and I've worked out a charm that will get us started on the blood. It will allow us to see how our magic is interacting, at least theoretically, but after that the ball's in your court. Also, I told Minerva last night that we'd help with the rebuilding. Although I suppose I should have asked before volunteering you. Sorry."  
Severus stared down his nose at her. The girl was practically vibrating with excitement. With a pang, he realized that she must have missed this, missed research and learning and new magic. It must have all but driven her mad to be on an unending camping trip with a limited library and two narrow-minded, uncurious teenage boys for company. He knew the feeling. It had all but driven him mad to be stuck in the Headmaster's office, pushing paper and keeping Death Eaters from torturing the students too cruelly. He had missed his laboratory and his journals. And she had saved his life... He squared his shoulders, trying not to enjoy too much the whisper of cashmere against his skin.  
"All right."  
"Sorry?"  
"I assume you took notes, Miss Granger? Leave them with me while you bathe."  
She beamed at him and began rummaging in her purse, and he felt a little ping of phantom joy. It was infectious, and he felt the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. She thrust a Muggle spiral-bound notebook into his hands and slipped from the room.

Forty-five minutes later, he had to admit that the girl was thorough. He wasn't sure when she'd had the time to work this all through, to be honest, unless she hadn't slept the night before. He also wasn't sure how long it took for one relatively small witch to clean herself, or how much hot water Hogwarts would be capable of producing at the moment, what with its innate magic occupied with keeping itself from falling apart at the seams. He fervently hoped there'd be enough left over for him.  
She finally returned, her mad hair tamed somewhat by its wetness. She'd exchanged her dressing gown for blue jeans and a charcoal grey v-neck t-shirt, and he rolled his eyes. Wonderful. Not only was he some sort of wireless receiver for her emotions, but his magic had seemingly been affected by her sartorial sense. Just bloody perfect. At least she favored dark colours.  
"Right," she said, smiling. "What do you think?" It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the notes, not her wardrobe, and he thrust the notebook back at her.  
"It is not without merit," he admitted grudgingly. "I believe your charm will, in fact, work, and once we can visualise the nature of the entanglement, we can begin to work out how to undo it."  
She smiled broadly and was drawing breath to speak when Poppy bustled in, laden down with notes and unpleasant-looking instruments.  
The next several whiles were a flurry of diagnostic spells, blood draws, and chattering witches. The hypothesizing was bearable, even interesting, but when they got sidetracked from Healing and began to natter on about the instant trend of post-war engagements, Severus found he had had quite enough.  
"Will you be QUIET," he bellowed, and blissful silence fell. Poppy looked startled, while Granger looked, and, he realized, _felt_ terrified. "I apologise for yelling," he continued in a mutter, somewhat abashed, "but I am underfed and, more to the point, undercaffeinated. Would one of you please have the decency to call for breakfast and a very large, very strong pot of coffee?"  
"Make that two, please, Madame Pomfrey," added Granger. "If we're going to work all day, I'll need coffee and toast."  
"If you're going to duel me, Miss Granger, I'd advise something heartier than toast."  
"If you're going to duel _me,_ Professor Snape, I'd advise a second pot of coffee."  
He gaped at her. The timid, mousy, nervous girl he had known would never have spoken to him in that insolent tone, much less have had enough confidence in her abilities to challenge him. His astonishment must have been written on his face, because she shrugged and raised one eyebrow.  
"War does funny things to a person, Professor."  
"So it would seem," he said dryly, and bowed to Poppy. "If you'll excuse me, I would like to bathe before breakfast."  
"Make sure to keep your bandage dry," the matron and Granger chorused, and it was all he could do to keep from rolling his eyes. _Women. _


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews thus far! Please keep them coming. They warm the heart and speed the writing process. This is unfolding more slowly than I had originally anticipated, so be patient, please. As always, the Potterverse and everything in it belongs solely to JKR. **  
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As Hermione trotted alongside Snape, she battled her nerves. For all her bravado earlier, he was probably going to wipe the floor with her, and rightly so. He was a seasoned warrior, strange as it was to think of him that way, and she was only eighteen. While she did have an impressive cache of self-created hexes and jinxes that she was itching to try out, it was entirely possible that they wouldn't work. She was well on her way to working herself into a tizzy over their upcoming duel when she remembered a question she'd wanted answered.

"Sir, may I ask you something?"

"Miss Granger, I was under the impression that no power in the universe would be able to stop you from asking questions."

"Oh, ha ha. I asked because you might find it rude. Or uncomfortable."

"Just spit it out, Granger."

"All right, then. I was wondering about the logic of Voldemort's campaign against Muggleborns. It's easy enough to say pureblood good, Muggleborn bad, but it's not like that in the real world, is it? I mean, what about people like Harry and Dean, for example? Harry's mum was a Muggleborn witch married to a pureblood wizard, whereas Dean's dad was a regular Muggle married to a witch. Would Harry have lasted longer or been in higher favour than Dean? I mean if Harry weren't Harry, of course. Did Voldemort have some sort of algorithm for just how pure your blood had to be to avoid persecution?"

Snape had stopped walking and was looking down at her warily. He seemed torn, and Hermione guessed it was between taking her question in good faith and hexing her into the next dimension. She was relieved when the former won out.

"No, there was no algorithm. There couldn't have been, or else he would have been among the first to go. He had a Muggle father, you see."

"Yes, I had wondered about that."

"You _knew_?"

Hermione nodded. "Was that part of the reason you were in favour, sir? Your shared heritage?" Even as the words left her mouth, she regretted them. Someday she would learn subtlety and tact, but this was apparently not that happy day.

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and to her great surprise, answered her question.

"Yes. No… Maybe. The thing you need to know about the Dark Lord, Granger, is that he is -_was- _insane. Absolutely mad. Completely fucking bonkers. You can't go looking for logic in his edicts or his actions, because there isn't -wasn't_-_ any. I'm not sure _he_ knew entirely what the rules concerning blood status were, which made it all the more terrifying. And, I suppose, that was the entire point. Terror." A pause, then, reluctantly, "Nor am I sure why he trusted me as much as he did. I assure you, I gave the matter a not inconsiderable amount of thought before resigning myself to not, as they say, looking a gift horse in the mouth."

She nodded again, and Snape seemed to unfreeze and began once more to stride down the corridor.

"My turn for a question, Miss Granger. Would you care to explain to me how you did it? Defeated him?"

"I didn't defeat him."

"The 'you' was plural."

"Right. I don't think we have time for the whole story."

"Be succinct. I know it was never one of your strong suits, but do make an effort." The corners of his eyes crinkled at this, undermining his attempt at snark.

"If you don't mind, I'll wait until we're out of the castle."

"That bad?"

She paused, mulling over the events of the past year.

"Worse," she said grimly, and unconsciously rubbed one of the scars that ran down her right side.

"Join the club," he muttered, and they clattered down the steps of the Entrance Hall and made their way, blinking, into the sunlight.

As they walked across the grounds, Hermione filled him in about the Horcruxes and their destruction, omitting all but the most salient details, and skirting widely around the unpleasantness at Malfoy Manor. She assumed he'd heard about it.

"Seven Horcruxes," Snape breathed, pursing his lips. "That explains a lot, actually."

"Sir?"

"He was much more unstable this time. Before - well, there was a reason he had followers. He was charismatic, handsome, compelling. He had a way of making you feel like you were the most important person on earth, and only tortured those who failed him. He had a strange sense of justice, but it did exist. The second time around... Suffice it to say, the timing works out. He was already down two-sevenths of his soul when he returned, and it only got worse. You say you destroyed the locket in late January?"

Hermione nodded.

"Yes, that adds up. I wondered what had happened to make him so ruthless." His face was pale, his breathing, shallow. Clearly, late January had not been a pleasant time for him.

Time and silence stretched on, and as much as Hermione enjoyed being out in the sunlight chatting about dead megalomaniacs, they had work to do. They were in the field behind the remains of Hagrid's hut, which they had judged to be both sufficiently far from the castle to attract attention and large, flat, and soft enough for a practice duel. She turned on her heel and counted twenty paces, then drew her wand and took several deep, slow, calming breaths.

"Let's start small," she called, and he inclined his head.

"One, two, three!" She cast a Leg-Locker, which he brushed aside with a casual flick of his wand; he retaliated with a Stunner that she easily ducked. She sent a Bat-Bogey Hex at his head, which he deflected with a wordless Shield Charm.

"_Impedimenta,"_ she shouted, while wordlessly casting Jelly Legs, which hit him squarely in the knees. He wobbled momentarily, but remained on his feet. _Interesting_. He fired off _Levicorpus_, which she blocked, but followed it so quickly with a Body-Bind that she was immediately, if temporarily, frozen.

"Oh, sod this for a game of soldiers," she muttered as she shook off the curse, and with a slash of her wand she sent an _Avis oppugno _at him. Instead of attacking, however, the birds merely flew around his head, one growing so bold as to perch on his shoulder. Really fed up now, she wordlessly hurled a recent hex of her own invention at him, and watched with interest as absolutely nothing happened. She walked over and lowered her wand.

"What was the last one supposed to be?" he asked, swatting birds away with one hand.

"Tickling hex," she said, chewing her bottom lip. "A debilitating adaptation of _Rictusempra. _I suppose I shouldn't be surprised it didn't work. They say it's impossible to tickle yourself, and it seems my magic recognizes you now. Well, I was right, at least. The effectiveness of our spells was weakened."

"I wonder... _Physician, heal thyself_… Hmm. Not unlikely." He seemed to realize he was thinking aloud and cleared his throat. "Excuse me. Perhaps it has something to do with intention. Hexes and jinxes don't work, but well-intentioned charms should. May I?"

She nodded hesitantly, and he raised his wand and murmured something inaudible. Hermione had the brief sense that she was being enveloped in a nice, warm blanket, and then the feeling passed.

"_Inuria revelio,_" he explained tersely, clearly looking at something she couldn't see. His eyes narrowed, and he waved his wand again, peering intently into the middle distance. He growled, once, low in the back of his throat and murmured "_Finite._" Silence, then, quietly:

"You didn't mention you were Crucioed. When did that happen?"

"What?" she yelped, actually stepping back from him. "What? How -?"

"It's a diagnostic charm of sorts that reveals past hexes and curses. I'm assuming it worked and wasn't incorrect."

"Of all the bloody charms to test, you chose that one? Couldn't you have settled for a Hover Charm or turning my hair blue? But no, that would be too kind. Far better to invade my privacy," she spat before turning and walking swiftly away. She refused to break into a run, and she bit her lip until it bled to keep from crying.

He followed at a respectful distance, across the grounds, back into the castle, up the stairs, to what remained of Gryffindor Tower. She ignored his presence, a low hum in the back of her mind, and set about repairing the exterior common room walls, infusing each stone with every protection charm she knew and then weaving the charms on each stone together to create a magical as well as corporeal wall. After more than an hour of steady spellwork, she was exhausted, too exhausted to protest when he came and stood next to her. To her amazement, he put one hand on the small of her back and she felt a sudden warmth as a familiar and yet utterly foreign power coursed through her. He was offering her his magic in a grand if silent gesture of apology, and she used it to repair the rest of the outside wall as well as the staircases to the dormitories, at every moment aware that what they were doing should, by all rights, be impossible.

"I've never seen that done before," he murmured in her ear as she finished. "How did you tie the spells together like that?"

"Based it on a knitting pattern," she grunted as she cast the final _Glisseo _that would prevent girls from entering the boys' dormitories as well as vice versa. That particular gender inequality had always bothered her. She stepped back to survey her work, pleased at the progress she'd made. _That _we've_ made,_ she corrected herself. She wouldn't have come nearly so far without borrowing power from Professor Snape. As it was, she was on the brink of collapse. _All right, maybe farther than the brink_, she admitted as she staggered.A strong arm caught her before she fell, and she found herself pressed up against a firm, wiry chest.

"You bitch."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, confused, and turned enough in Snape's grasp to come face-to-face with a very pale, very angry Ron.

"I'm sorry?" she asked dully, her head pounding. His timing could not have been worse. She was drained, hungry, thirsty, tired, and overwhelmed.

"You – he – Merlin, Hermione, you don't waste time."

"Spit it out, Ronald," she said wearily. "What are you on about?"

His eyes flicked between her and Snape, whose arm was still around her waist. Gingerly, she pulled away, light dawning.

"Grow up," she told him coldly. "I almost fainted, fixing the common room. Professor Snape kept me from falling."

"Right, and I'm the bloody Queen of France," he said, his face twisted in an ugly sneer. He turned to Snape.

"As far as I'm concerned, you can have the fucking Mudblood. Traitors, the pair of you. You'll do well together."

There was a flurry of activity as Snape punched Ron square in the face and Hermione used the last of her magic to cast a Leg-Locker on him. She clutched Snape's arm for support as she used her foot to nudge him onto his back.

"I make allowance for your grief," she said hollowly, "And will permit your gonads to remain attached to your body. Even though you weren't the only one to love Fred, I make allowance for your grief."

She looked down at him, unsure if Snape had managed to get in a silent Silencer during the skirmish, or whether Ron was just dumbstruck. She guessed it was the latter, because even though his legs were the only limbs affected by her curse, he had made no move to staunch the flow of blood from his nose.

"I want you to see something," she said slowly, trying to make him meet her eyes. "I didn't think that you could handle it without doing something rash, so I kept it to myself. For months, I kept it hidden. But clearly you don't care about me, or you wouldn't have said that. So."

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she tugged at the hem of her shirt in what would surely be the most perverse striptease she would ever do. Pulling it over her head, she let it dangle from her fingertips. She stood there in her bra, eyes locked on Ron's.

"There was no need to call me that, you see," she said, her voice deadly quiet. "Because I wake up to the reminder every day."

And she turned so her right side was in his field of vision. He let out a strangled yelp as he saw the scars, still a livid red after all these months, the result of Bellatrix's cursed knife. The word MUDBLOOD ran in an arc from her hip to the side of her breast, carved into her flesh with a sickening precision.

"You're not the only one who lost something in this war," she hissed at him, "So stop acting like it."

"Hermione –"

"Don't talk. Don't say another word to me. You will, however, apologize to Professor Snape for calling him a traitor. Go to hell, Ronald Weasley." She pulled her shirt back on and stepped over him, and with the last ounce of energy she possessed, stalked out of the common room.

Severus found her at the top of the stairs, slumped dazedly against the wall. Without a word, he scooped her into his arms and carried her back to Minerva's rooms. Halfway there, he felt a spreading dampness on the front of his shirt and was amazed to find her crying. He had been unaware that one could weep absolutely silently. Tentatively he attuned himself to the connection between them and reeled at the depth of betrayal she was feeling. His pace and his ire at the Weasley boy both increased, the latter exponentially.

As he deposited the small witch gently in her bed, he felt an odd sense of pride in her. What she'd done was brave, certainly, but it had also demonstrated a maturity and strength of character that impressed him. She hadn't hexed Weasley or called him names; that would be stooping to his level. Instead, she had chosen the simpler path that would, Severus suspected, hurt him more in the long run.

He turned to go but found she was clutching his hand.

"Please stay."

He complied, conjuring a chair and pulling it close. "Do you…want to talk about it?" he asked uncertainly.

"No. Just sit. Please."

The silence between them wasn't awkward. They sat with the stillness of two people who have known each other for years and are comfortable enough with each other for words to be unnecessary, but of course, that was foolish. He barely knew the girl – _Woman,_ he corrected himself, feeling like he should accord her at least that respect.

The shadows lengthened and he lit a small fire in the grate. Finally the silence was broken by a loud growl. He jumped.

"What was that?"

She flushed. "My stomach."

"That was your _stomach_? Merlin, woman, I thought there was a badger in the room!"

She giggled weakly, and he felt smug.

"Pokey," he called, and there was a loud _crack. _"Hello. I was wondering if you would provide us supper here. Miss Granger is feeling unwell and is unable to make it to the Great Hall this evening."

The elf bowed deeply. "Pokey is honoured to be bringing supper to the Dark Hero and the Elf Saviour!" He disappeared with another _crack,_ and Severus snorted.

"I suppose I'm the Dark Hero, though I will hex any human who tries to use that particular honorific, but what's this about the Elf Saviour?" he asked. "I thought they didn't appreciate SPEW."

"You knew about S.P.E.W?" she squeaked, enunciating each letter instead of resorting to acronym, and he felt her embarrassment fizzle under his skin.

"Hermione, the entire castle knew about SPEW. I think I still have a badge in a desk drawer somewhere. Why are you the Elf Saviour?" Her first name tumbled easily, too easily, from his lips, and judging from the glint in her eye, it hadn't gone unnoticed.

"I got them out of the kitchens during the Final Battle," she whispered. "It was Ron's idea, actually." Her eyes filled with tears again, but she bit down hard on her lip, refusing to let them fall. Severus wanted to tell her it was all right, that he understood betrayal and romance cut off even before it began, but he didn't. Instead he stared blankly at a spot of wall behind her head and waited for her to regain control of herself.

"Your work on the common room was admirable," he said once he was certain she wouldn't start crying again.

"You helped," she reminded him, "Even though you shouldn't have been able to. How did that happen?"

He shrugged. "Poppy said it yesterday, didn't she? This is uncharted territory. I imagine we'll both be capable of some strange things. We'll work it out, though. First thing tomorrow, you should try your charm on our blood."

She nodded. "Yes, once I have some magic available. Have you given any thought to the disentangling? How you'll do it, I mean?"

He was saved having to answer by the reappearance of Pokey and another, unfamiliar elf, who were bearing two giant trays laden with food.

"Bouillabaisse!" Hermione all but shrieked, taking the tray that was offered. "_And_ cream puffs. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble, Pokey."

"No trouble is too much for Elf Saviour and Dark Hero, miss," said Pokey, bowing so low that his nose brushed the ground. Severus took the other tray, and was pleased to find wine, ratatouille, and a large, sizzling steak.

They tucked in, conversation on hold. Severus mulled over the entanglement problem as he ate, closing his eyes briefly in pleasure as he sipped his wine.

Though the physical sensation of Hermione's spellcasting was irritating, the implications of their shared power were fascinating. The connection provided a doorway into magical theory that hadn't been touched in centuries. They couldn't seem to harm each other, which opened a world of possibilities for protective spells, perhaps even an improvement on the Fidelius Charm. He'd noticed he was aware of her presence in a room on a magical level, which could be useful in tracking and concealment, and perhaps even the emotional connection, which he'd initially brushed off as inconvenient, could result in major advances in Legilimency.

As if picking up on his brainwaves, Hermione swallowed her mouthful and asked, "Sir? How does the Imperius Curse work?"

"Surely you're familiar with its effects by now, Miss Granger. You were even placed under it briefly by the younger Mr. Crouch, if I recall."

"I know what it does, and how it's cast. I asked how it works. What's the mechanism?"

He bit back a smile and shook his head slowly. "Like so much of magic, particularly spellwork, that aspect has been overlooked by researchers. It's one of the reasons I prefer Potions. The mechanism of action is just as necessary as the efficacy."

"Yes, I could see how that would be appealing." She fiddled with her hair, her brow furrowed.

"Why do you ask?" His curiosity was growing.

"I'm not ready to say, yet. I have a hunch, but I'll need to do some reading. And we'll probably need to involve a third party. I doubt it'll work, just the two of us. Jelly-Legs barely did anything, so an Unforgivable… Though maybe, if I'm right, it would be even easier. Maybe Harry … but no, he can fight it; someone else, someone less headstrong. I'll write to Kingsley for permission tomorrow."

Severus blinked. If he'd strung her muttered nonsense together correctly and she was suggesting what he thought she was suggesting, it would be the single greatest advancement in Magical Law Enforcement since Veritaserum.

"You think _Imperio_ causes entanglement?"

"Of a sort, possibly, yes. If my charm works on us –"

"And if _Imperio _acts in the way you think—"

"Then we could use it to reveal whether someone had committed crimes while under the Curse, yes."

"That," Severus breathed, "Is brilliant. Shacklebolt will want to kiss you on the mouth if you're right."

Hermione went pink with pleasure and returned to her food. Severus followed suit, his steak like sawdust in his mouth. He so badly wanted this to work.

As they finished their meal, something occurred to him.

"Do they cause you pain?"

"Sorry, what?"

"The scars."

"Oh. No, not really. Occasionally if I'm very frightened they'll twinge, but otherwise no. They're mostly just ugly, and a glamour doesn't work on them. I've tried. It's not a problem, really. Could've been worse. Just means I'm relegated to a lifetime of one-piece swimsuits."

He ignored her half-hearted attempt at a joke, nodded, and wordlessly summoned a jar from his office. It flew in through the open window and he tossed it to her.

"This may help," he explained. "It's why I don't look a lot worse than I do."

At her questioning glance he shook his head. "That's a story for another day. Or never," he added brightly, or at least as brightly as he could manage.

"Thank you, sir."

"Severus," he corrected her. "We're colleagues now, more or less, and I'm not sure if I'll ever return to teaching."

"Severus," she murmured, testing the word. "Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you so much for all the kind reviews! They really do inspire me to write, so keep 'em coming! A brief note on Ron in the previous chapter: I didn't mean to bash him, per se. People do strange things when they're grief-stricken, and he has never been reasonable where Hermione is concerned. **

Hermione woke late the next morning, feeling refreshed and revitalized. Stretching, she took stock of her magic and estimated she was at sixty percent of capacity. Not ideal, but enough to be getting on with. She'd just have to be more judicious in her choice of spells.

Re-emerging in a haze of steam after quick shower, she noticed three things. First, the post had arrived. Second, she was starving. And third, Snape - _Severus, _she reminded herself - was nowhere to be seen or felt. The low hum in the back of her mind that had been present for the past two days was gone, and its absence worried her. It had been oddly comforting, like the purr of a cat or the thrum of a lived-in house, and the silence was disturbing.

She threw on some clothes, stuffed the pile of letters into her pocket, and took off down the corridor. She knew she shouldn't be reacting this strongly to the apparent disintegration of a magical connection that was unknown, untested, and with a former Death Eater and Grade A Grouch, but she felt bereft. All the plans she'd been formulating, the promise of a new task, a new purpose - could all of that really disappear overnight?

She got her answer on the ground floor, when all of a sudden the hum popped back online. She stopped dead in her tracks and probed it, making sure it was real, before she changed direction and made for the kitchens.

The hum tuned in and out as she descended the stairs, and she decided it reminded her of a weak wireless signal. Perhaps it operated under the same principle. As she decreased the distance between them, she was able to pick up the signal again, but now, assuming he was in his quarters, there was the magical interference of the house elves in the kitchen to contend with. It would be something to look into that afternoon.

Poking her head through the portrait of the fruit-basket-cum-kitchen-door, she felt hundreds of large, green eyes on her, and then she was besieged. Spindly arms hugged her legs, a multitude of voices greeted and thanked her, and she felt not unlike a rock star, though admittedly one with a narrow and decidedly weird fan base.

"Hello," she called, her voice pitched to carry over the chattering elves. "I'm very glad you're all safe and sound."

At this, a shrill cheer went up, and she found herself smiling. "It's lovely to see all of you. I don't mean to interrupt, but I was just hoping to beg some breakfast. Please, nothing elaborate. Just a very large, very strong pot of coffee and maybe a fruit salad or something."

Instantly the elves sprang into action, and she was handed in short order a giant silver coffee service and a basket the size of a toddler's bed.

"I appreciate it, I really do, but there's no way I can carry all this to Professor Snape's office," she protested. "Just toast and fruit will do, really."

The elves standing nearest her looked devastated, and her heart melted.

"Oh, very well. Could you give me a hand, please?"

They seemed to take this literally, because the coffee service and basket were whisked away, and a very small elf stood on tiptoe, took her hand, and Apparated them to the Potions classroom.

"We is not allowed into Dark Hero's office, miss," the elf explained, "I is very sorry, but this is as far as Clyde can take you."

"You did splendidly, Clyde," Hermione said warmly. "Thank you very much."

He blushed, bowed low, and Disapparated without straightening.

The door on the far end of the classroom was wrenched open, and Hermione was treated to a full-fledged Potions Master glare.

"What do you want?" he snarled, and she would have been taken aback, except she was too glad to note that the hum was back in full force.

"I brought you coffee," she said blandly, "And what looks like the entire breakfast repertoire the kitchen has to offer."

"Coffee?" he asked, his eyes lighting up, and made a beeline for the service. When he'd poured himself a cup he settled back in the chair behind his desk and sighed in pleasure. "Coffee."

"You're an addict, aren't you?" she asked, pouring herself a cup and stirring in a splash of milk.

"You have no idea. It's the only thing that makes life bearable," he explained.

"Not a morning person?"

"Isn't that what I just said?"

She laughed, and helped herself to a croissant.

"I thought the connection had broken when I couldn't feel you this morning," she said around a mouthful.

"What do you mean, when _you_ couldn't feel _me_?" he snapped, taking a large swig from his cup.

"You're this low hum in the back of my head," she explained, blushing for some reason. "And when you weren't there this morning, it was gone. Silent. I panicked. I thought the connection had expired, and that all of our plans would be ruined."

"You don't mind it, then?"

She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. It's odd, certainly, but it's _interesting. _I think it could prove to be quite useful. I'm not ready for it to disappear, at any rate."

"And the disentangling potion?"

Hermione tried hard to keep her expression neutral. "It's up to you. You're affected more strongly than I. If you want to rid yourself of it, I completely understand."

He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head almost imperceptibly. "I'm curious," he murmured. "I have so many ideas - It's an opportunity to revolutionize magical theory."

Hermione smiled sweetly. "You do realize we're probably both mad."

"Absolutely insane."

"What was it? Completely fucking bonkers?"

He nodded, unable to hide his smile, and she took another large bite of croissant and dug around in her pocket for the post. The top letter was from Kingsley, responding to the letter she'd sent just before bed the night before, unable to hold off until a more reasonable hour. She read his reply through thrice, scarcely able to process what it said.

"What's the matter?" Severus's voice cut through her bemusement.

"He's given us permission to use the Imperius for our research," she said rather unsteadily. "And has, in fact, given us blanket permission to use anything short of _Avada_. We're to be unofficial Unspeakables, with a stipend and everything."

"Let me see." He all but snatched the parchment from her, and let out a low whistle as he read.

"Full rights to anything we discover, too. That's generous. It would seem the Ministry is trying to make amends."

"Do you trust them?"

"I don't make a habit of trusting anyone. Open that one, it's from Gringotts."

Hermione let out a squeak. "1500 Galleons," she whispered. "That's obscene!"

"That would be the initial sum mentioned in the letter, I imagine. The stipend itself will necessarily be more modest."

"Didn't you get a letter?"

"Probably. The owls don't enjoy the dungeons. My post will be in the staff room. In fact, _Accio_ my post."

In less than a minute, several letters slid under the closed classroom door. He retrieved them, opened the top one, skimmed it briefly, and tossed it aside, two red spots coloring his high cheekbones.

"My trial date is set for next Thursday," he said hollowly.

"You'll get off," Hermione reassured him. "There's no way you won't."

"It will be mortifying."

"Yes, but then you'll be able to move on with your life. A passing unpleasantness has to be better than a lifetime in Azkaban."

He shrugged, obviously reluctant to concede the point, and Hermione opened her third letter. It was on thick, creamy, official, letterhead.

_Dear Miss Granger, _it read.

_I have the honour of informing you that you have been awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class, for your pivotal role in the downfall of He Who Must Not Be Named. The awards ceremony will be held on 1 June, and will be followed by the First Annual Downfall Ball. If you cannot, for any reason, be present at the ceremony, please alert me immediately, and we will arrange for the prize money and the medal to be sent to your home._

_With warmest congratulations,_

Hecuba Prewitt-Jones  
Vice-Chancellor  
Council on the Order of Merlin  
London, England, The World.

Hermione crumpled the paper in one shaking fist. It wasn't fair. She'd dropped out of school, wandered in the woods for a few months with her friends, and destroyed one measly Horcrux, while Severus had spent the past eighteen years not knowing whether he'd live to see another sunrise. She got a medal, while he got put on trial.

The calm, rational part of her brain knew he would soon be exonerated and receive a similar letter, but he was right. It would be mortifying. For a man as private and reserved as he, revealing his motivations to turn turncoat to a public gallery would be akin to being Crucioed. Was this how bravery was to be rewarded?

_He was a Death Eater,_ she reminded herself. _He's probably done horrible things._

And made up for them in spades,

the stubborn part of her shot back. _He doesn't deserve this._

"Oh, stop it," he snapped, jerking her from her reverie.

"Sorry?"

"It may be well-intentioned, but your righteous indignation on my behalf is irritating."

"How -?"

"The seal on the envelope is from the Merlin Council, I can feel your emotions, and even if I couldn't you've always allowed every thought in your head to manifest itself on your face. I imagine you'd be a worse Occlumens than Potter, but that is beside the point. You've been awarded the Order of Merlin and are feeling guilty about it and sorry for me. Stop."

"But it's not _fair._"

"It is. What class?"

She ignored his question. "How can you say that, Severus? After everything you did for our side -"

"I took the Dark Mark willingly. I was a Death Eater. I have tried to perform penance for my actions, but it is not for me to decide whether it was enough."

"It was enough. Of course it was."

"And while I appreciate the sentiment," he said, sounding as if the admission caused him pain, "It is also not for you to decide. Justice will be done."

Hermione struggled valiantly, but one tear escaped and slid down her nose. Severus pretended to ignore it. His face was paler than normal, but his eyes were burning in a way she'd never seen before.

"I thought you said you didn't trust. Doesn't that preclude having faith in the legal system?"

He sneered, but it was clear his heart wasn't in it. She drew a shuddering breath and continued.

"I'd like to come, if I may."

"It's possible you'll have to. You might be subpoenaed."

"Even if I'm not, I'd like to be there."

He shrugged.

"Do what you will."

***  
Severus watched as Hermione bent over the low, shallow dishes that held their blood. She was murmuring a series of incantations, her hair falling over her face, and for the six hundred and thirty-second time since meeting her, he wished she'd pull it back. Every single Potions class since she'd arrived at Hogwarts, he had worried she would either singe it in the flames or let a strand drop into her brew, with God knew what consequences. How she had avoided disaster thus far was beyond him. Perhaps he would buy her a set of elastic bands for Christmas, assuming he wasn't in Azkaban by then, though even if he weren't the hint would probably be too subtle for a Gryffindor.

He fidgeted, unused to being relegated to observing while another worked. He did wish she'd hurry up. Idleness gave him too much time to think, and thinking had become considerably more dangerous over the past couple of days.

Severus Snape did not, as a rule, trust people. He had told Hermione that just an hour ago. He also did not, as a rule, like people. Thus, that he found himself both enjoying the young woman's company and not hexing her when she demonstrated her fabled compassion was troubling, to say the least. She was bright, he'd give her that. And the way she'd handled Weasley - he found himself wishing Lily had shown the same fortitude, instead of flying off the handle and giving him the silent treatment for four years before getting herself killed. Though, to be scrupulously fair, Hermione hadn't yet spoken to Weasley. She would, though, in time, he knew. The witch didn't have it in her to hold a grudge for very long.

The similarities between Lily and Hermione were purely superficial, he decided. Smart, courageous, with a propensity for charms. But while Lily had sought out the elder Potter and his gang because of their popularity, Hermione had befriended the current Potter in spite of his. Lily had gotten married and pregnant almost the moment she graduated from Hogwarts; Hermione was, to his knowledge, single and focusing on her career. Lily could be, and often was, spiteful, and while Hermione was not to be trifled with when she was in a mood, she wasn't cruel. Lily was quick to laugh; Hermione was far too often in tears. Lily wanted to change him, Hermione seemed to accept him as he was. He'd caught her looking at the Dark Mark, but always with curiosity tinged with sorrow, not the disgust Lily had always accorded it. And, of course, Hermione had the added benefit of being alive.

Severus shifted, acutely uncomfortable. This line of thought was not only dangerous but thoroughly, unequivocally stupid. Comparing Hermione, his former student and current research partner, to Lily, his long-lost love, was pointless. It was apples and oranges as an intellectual exercise, not deciding which to have with breakfast. And just because he happened not to loathe her as much as he'd thought, it did not give him license to notice the way her blue jeans hugged her hips or how a small patch of skin was visible where her shirt had ridden up.

_That's it,_ he thought furiously to himself. _When we're done for the morning I'm having a bath, a wank, and a nap. I am clearly still recovering from being almost-dead. It has addled my mind._

"I've got it." Her voice was even, but he felt a thrum of excitement.

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. See for yourself."

He moved next to her and looked. The dish on the left glowed a pale, even gold, while the dish on the right, his dish, was a deep, dark green that was threaded throughout with the gold of her. It was beautiful and disturbing all in one.

"Sir - Severus, I was thinking. Oh, don't even say it. Yes, I know. What a surprise, Hermione Granger, thinking."

He shut his mouth firmly and gestured for her to continue. Was he really that predictable? He'd have to try harder.

"I read something a while back about how Muggles have discovered the causes of certain neurological diseases. They go about it backwards, you see, by trying treatments and figuring what works. If a dopamine agonist helps alleviate the symptoms of Parkinson's disease, for example, then they reckon that Parkinson's is caused at least in part by some sort of dopamine deficiency. Then they go forward again from there."

He picked up his wand. "Which allows us to avoid weeks in the library looking in vain for research no one has done yet. The charm will do the dirty work for us. Excellent. Who's Imperiusing whom, then?"

"Glad you saw where I was going with that. You should do me. You're already all tangled up, so the charm might not show anything new, and besides, I've never cast it before."

"And you're assuming I have." He kept his tone dour and gave her a searing, wounded look.

Her eyes widened. "Well, yes. I assumed, given your... considering that... you were a Death … I didn't mean to imply - Oh, you utter _arse._"

Her eyes widened even further and she punched him hard on the shoulder as he dissolved into laughter.

"That wasn't funny," she protested, but her lips were twitching. "Oh, all right, it was a little. Are you going to Imperius me or not?"

"That is, without a doubt, one of the oddest questions I've ever been asked."

"Just do it."

"You're sure?"

It was to her credit that she hesitated for only a fraction of a second before nodding.

"Wait," she instructed, digging in her omnipresent bag and withdrawing a plastic-wrapped syringe. "We might as well kill two birds with one stone. Make me draw my own blood, and then when you've released me I'll do the charm."

For some reason, the thought made him squeamish, but he nodded slowly, and raised his wand.

"_Imperio._"

He'd forgotten just how much he hated this, hated the glassy look in her eyes, hated the freakish, marionette-like movements of her limbs, her usual fluidity of motion gone. He gritted his teeth and forced her to draw her own blood, averting his eyes when the needle slid home. He counted to ten, hoped that was long enough, and released her with a shudder. Immediately she emptied the blood into a third, empty dish and bent over it, chanting softly. Severus threw himself into a chair, his head in his hands. _Never fucking again. _

***  
"It worked," Hermione shrieked. "We did it!"

He looked up, face haggard, eyes tortured, and she felt a sudden pang. Of course it would have been hard on him. She should have considered the mnemonic upheaval it was certain to cause, but instead she'd raced blindly ahead, eyes on the prize.

"Severus, I'm so sorry. I didn't think. I didn't know."

"Not your fault. I didn't either."

"I'll do it next time. I'm sorry."

"Never mind."

He came to stand beside her and looked into the dish, eyes crinkling in spite of himself.

"Look at that," he said after a moment. "Theory in practise."

Hermione glanced once more at the green and gold. It was an odd, violent pattern, reminiscent of paisley. Nothing like the soft, subtle interweaving of her magic with his. She itched to investigate further, to see how this blending of power could cause one to lose one's free will entirely. It had scared her how pleasant it had been, being wholly subservient to another. All self-doubt had been removed, and she existed only to do as she was told. The complete absence of thought was so foreign that she'd felt almost like she was floating. _How did it work?_ But she had time. This was the best part of peace, she decided, the great swaths of time she had to do whatever she pleased. A few hours wasted here or there would not be the difference between life and death. The research would keep until later.

"I'll tell you what," she said firmly, "Let me buy you a drink. It's after noon, so we won't be total degenerates, and we've something to celebrate. You look like you could use a pint or two."

"The Three Broomsticks?"

"You think we can avoid the press?"

"Hermione, I'd be a piss-poor excuse for a spy if I couldn't disguise myself, don't you think?"

"Lead on, then."


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry for the delay in updating! This chapter gave me trouble. Let me know if it works; please keep the lovely reviews coming! **

**The poem George reads is by Auden, the jokes are all of my favourites, the Doctor Who reference is intentional, and the characters belong to JKR. **

As they made their way back through the makeshift gates after a leisurely afternoon spent reading in a companionable silence in the Hog's Head, the Three Broomsticks having been mobbed by post-Downfall revelers, Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder. She wheeled around, but there was nothing there.

"God, Harry, how many times? Don't _do_ that!"

"Sorry," he said, removing the Cloak. "I know, but the look on your face gets me every time. Hello, Professor."

Severus nodded curtly. "Potter."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. That had been almost cordial.

"Er, Hermione, could I have a word?"

"Of course." She glanced at Severus, but he had already turned and started striding back toward the castle. Now that she'd seen him out of his teaching robes, she understood how he'd always managed to move so quickly. His legs went on for days.

"How's that going, then?" he asked, shoving the Cloak under his arm and jerking his head toward Snape's retreating form.

"Well enough," she replied vaguely, not ready to voice her new-ound and altogether startling tolerance for the man who'd been in love with Harry's mum since the early seventies. "We made a bit of a breakthrough this morning. I'll tell you about it later. What's up?"

He shrugged. "I just wanted to see you. We didn't really get a chance to talk, you know, _after_, and I needed to get away from the Burrow. Ron got piss drunk and told me and Ginny what happened between you last night, and Ginny told her mum... Between that and the funeral on Thursday, I thought I'd pop round and say hello."

Hermione let out a mirthless laugh. "I can't blame you."

Harry rubbed his hand over the three days' stubble on his chin. It suited him, Hermione decided. He looked like a man, rather than the boy he'd been a week ago. Perhaps that wasn't just due to the stubble, though. A week ago, he hadn't yet sacrificed himself for the sake of humankind, only to return from the dead and kill his arch-nemesis. A week ago, they'd all been children, and now they weren't. A week ago, more of their friends had been alive. Suddenly the events of the past three days, the past year, the past seven years, crashed down around her, a tidal wave of relief and loss and fear, and she threw her arms around Harry's neck and burst into tears. He was wonderfully solid and comfortable and _alive_, and somehow that only made her sob harder.

"Hey," he murmured, awkwardly patting her head, "What's all this? It's all right, it's over. We're safe."

She cried because he was right. She cried for Remus and Tonks, for Fred, for their families, for her parents' stolen memories, for herself. She cried because for the first time since she'd learned about the wizarding world, it was truly at peace. She cried because she had thought she'd lost Harry and found Ron, and she cried because, in both cases, she had thought wrong. She cried for the end of their innocence, the beginning of a new order, and for the man who was alive somewhere in the castle because of her. She cried for his losses, his bravery, and for the bewildered, frightened look that came into his eyes sometimes when he thought she wasn't looking.

When she'd run out of tears, she dug in her bag and retrieved a box of tissues.

"You really do have everything in there, don't you?" Harry asked, smiling kindly at her. At some point during her maelstrom of weeping, he had led them to sit on a log on the shore of the lake.

"More or less," she said thickly, blowing her nose. "Sorry. Just glad to see you is all."

"Blimey," said Harry. "It's only been two days."

She chuckled weakly. "Oh, all right. I've been too busy to process anything, so I suppose some of it may have had to do with that tiny, insignificant skirmish a few days ago. "

"Remind me? It rings a bell…"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Some daft idiot sacrificed himself for his friends and defeated the lunatic hell-bent on destroying the world as we know it."

"Oh right. Think I read something about it in the paper."

Hermione laughed. "I hope it wasn't in the Prophet. They'll have gotten it all wrong. I can see the headlines now: 'Dean Thomas Defeats You-Know-Who, and then a smaller story, on page three, maybe: Ginny Weasley Saves Her Death Eater Lover's Life.' How is Ginny, by the way?"

Harry flushed and grinned, his eyes bright. "Good. You know, considering. She's - she's great. We're great."

"Good."

They sat in silence for a while, and Hermione watched a pair of Thestrals swoop and dive over the Forest. Harry cleared his throat.

"Ron wanted me to tell you -"

Hermione cut him off. "He can tell me himself. Honestly, Harry, we're adults. It's time we started acting like it."

He nodded, obviously relieved. "You're still planning on coming on Thursday, right?"

"Of course!"

"Sorry. Just thought I'd check."

She was a little hurt that he'd thought he needed to. The Weasleys were family to her, just as they were to him, and no spat with Ron could change that.

"I've been spending a good deal of time at the Ministry," he said, eagerly changing the subject. "It's a bloody mess, and Kingsley's asked me to help sort some of it out. Apparently the three of us know more about Riddle's merry band of miscreants than most, so I've agreed to come on as an honorary Auror. I'll probably join up properly in the fall."

"Harry, that's wonderful!"

He grinned. "Yeah, not bad for someone who didn't graduate. Kingsley said you're working on something to do with the Imperius?"

Hermione immediately launched into an explanation of the work she and Severus had done in the past forty-eight hours. When she had finished, Harry looked impressed.

"That sounds brilliant," he said, and paused. "Wait, why can't you just do _Priori Incantatem?"_

She smiled. "I had thought about that, but Professor Snape said that it only works on spells that produce something visible. When your wand forced Riddle's to _Priori _itself during the Tournament, the people he'd killed appeared because that's what _Avada _does. It kills people, and the _Priori_ reveals, well, the ghost, I suppose, or whatever it is that disappears when you die. It's different with the Imperius, because the only thing the curse actually does is subjugate one will to another, and that's not something you can see."

Harry looked blank, so she continued.

"Say I Imperius you. The curse bends your will to mine, but that's all it does, so nothing shows up under _Priori. _I could make you paint yourself blue and bicycle naked down Charing Cross Road once your will is mine, but that's up to me, not the curse. Does that make sense?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah, it does, actually. Merlin, Hermione, do you think it'll actually work? Your charm, I mean."

"Yes," she said simply, "I do. There's a ways to go yet, but it looks promising."

"Well, don't sit here chatting with me, get a move on! There are dozens of former Death Eaters who'll be pleading Imperius. If you get it working before the trials begin, you're likely to get a second Order of Merlin."

She frowned. "Don't remind me. The Downfall Ball - whose idea was that, anyway? I mean, _really_."

Harry shrugged and got to his feet. "It's not like we didn't know this would happen."

She sighed. "You're right, of course. It was either this or being dead, and I suppose the ball is the lesser of the two evils."

"Ron might still wind up dead if Molly gets her hands on him."

Hermione giggled. "I have to admit, I wouldn't mind seeing that. Not him dead, of course," she added quickly, the memory of Fred's last laugh playing in her mind. "You know what I mean."

"Yeah. I should be getting back. I told Ginny I wouldn't be long."

"Wait." She dug in her bag, coming up finally with a small green book. With a wince and a silent apology to the Madam Pinces of the world, she found the page she was looking for, carefully tore it out, and folded it.

"Could you give this to George, please?" she asked, handing it to Harry. "With my love."

"Of course. I'll see you Thursday." He tucked the piece of paper carefully into his pocket.

She stood. "I'll walk you to the gates."

"Thanks. Listen, I meant to say earlier, if you need a place to stay once Poppy gives you the all-clear, you can have Grimmauld Place. I don't see leaving the Burrow for the summer -" at this, he grinned impishly for a moment before sobering. "And it has a lot of bad memories for me. It's yours, for as long as you want or need it."

Hermione's eyes filled with tears again. "Thank you," she breathed. "That's the nicest - thank you."

"Least I could do, dragging you across the country in a tent for a year."

She punched him lightly. "As if we gave you a choice."

"True."

She took his hand between hers and squeezed. "See you soon, Harry."

"So long."

She watched as he Disapparated, then turned and headed for the castle. She had work to do.

Thursday morning dawned damp and cool. It was, Hermione mused, as if the universe was finally paying attention and mourning, too. Peering at herself in the mirror, she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear, tugged at the top of her dress robes, transfigured today to a muted grey, and nodded her satisfaction at her reflection. She looked almost pretty, having taken the time to plait her hair properly, and she wore the garnet earrings her mum had given her for her seventeenth birthday. Glancing at the clock reflected in the mirror behind her, she swore. It was later than she'd thought. She and Severus had spent the morning testing a modification of her charm that would allow them to tell the time frame in which the Imperius had been placed. It was, she decided ruefully as she grabbed her bag and started down the corridor, a miserable failure, certainly not worth having made herself late. She looked at her watch and picked up the pace.

Severus was waiting for her as she skidded into the Entrance Hall. She stopped short, surprised.

"Hello," she said, taking the opportunity to kick off her high heels and transfigure them into flats, "What're you doing here?"

I... didn't dislike Fred," he said softly after a long pause. "He was a passable Potions student, and the twins' treatment of Umbridge was, to be perfectly frank, inspired. I had thought I might come and stand in the back, unless you think I would be intruding."

"You can stand with Minerva and Filius. It won't be inappropriate for an old professor to pay his respects."

"You're certain?"

"Yes. Come on, we're going to be late."

He followed her out of the castle, robes billowing behind him. Hermione had to smile. After almost a week of seeing him in Muggle clothes, the robes were a nice change, a comforting reminder that he was still the dour Potions Master of her childhood despite his continued insistence on behaving almost pleasantly. She wondered again about possible hypoxia-induced brain damage, and resolved to talk to Poppy about it when they returned.

As they strode through the gates, something else occurred to her.

"Severus, people know, don't they? That you were working for us all along? You're not going to be hexed to bits if you show your face in public, are you?"

"You clearly haven't been reading the newspaper."

"I unsubscribed ages ago. Useless piece of rubbish, the Prophet_._"

"Agreed, but it is often useful to know what the party line is. Yes, Potter told Shacklebolt, as you know, but he in turn then leaked it to the Prophet. I believe he was under the misapprehension that he was doing me a favour."

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. They didn't have time to argue, so she turned on her heel and Disapparated.

A huddle of people, fewer than she'd expected, stood in concentric circles in the meadow behind the Burrow. She moved forward through the throng without waiting for Severus. She needed to be with her friends today.

She found Harry at the front, standing next to Ron. Taking a deep breath, she slid in between them. Ron opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, a low, mournful bell began to chime in the distant village and the same tiny man who'd spoken at Dumbledore's funeral stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him.

The service was more or less the same as the one for Dumbledore had been, though whether it was because of the speaker or because wizarding funerals followed this pattern, Hermione wasn't certain. Regardless, she found it once again to be rather trite and vague. The speaker had clearly not known Fred even in passing, or he would have thrown in a joke or an anecdote, something to personalise it. Instead he stuck to the script, droning on about valor in battle and a life cut short.

As he was wrapping up, George stepped forward. This was clearly not part of the plan, judging by the way the small man was glowering. George ignored him, cleared his throat, and Hermione noticed with a rush of grief that he was holding a small, folded piece of paper.

"I wanted to say something," he began, voice rough, "But I didn't know how or what until someone -" his eyes flicked to Hermione for a moment, "found me the right words." And he unfolded the paper and began to read. Her eyes welled with tears and without thinking, she grabbed Harry and Ron's hands, squeezing hard.

_"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come._

_Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead_  
_Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,_  
_Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,_  
_Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves._

_He was my North, my South, my East and West,_  
_My working week and my Sunday rest,_  
_My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;_  
_I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong._

_The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;_  
_Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;_  
_Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood._  
_For nothing now can ever come to any good."_

George's voice had cracked on "wrong," and he barely made it through the last stanza. Tears streamed silently down his face, and were mirrored by everyone else in attendance. Molly was sobbing loudly into Bill's shoulder, and as Hermione caught Severus's eyes, even they seemed oddly bright.

She assumed George would melt back into the circle once he'd finished, but he stood by the grave until he found his voice again.

"Fred wouldn't have liked the last line," he said quietly, making no effort to wipe his face. " 'Nothing now can ever come to any good.' He wouldn't have liked that at all. Sorry, mate. That part was for me. But this is for you." He squared his shoulders and looked toward his family. "You'll know this one, of course. So there's this three-legged dog in the Old West, right? One night he walks into a bar and says 'I'm lookin' for the man that shot my paw."

A deafening silence greeted this. "No?" said George, a bit stronger now. "How about this one? What happened when the sailor traded his sausage for a seabird? He took a tern for the wurst."

At this, Hermione snorted, so did several others around her. Hesitantly, hoping this was the right thing to do, she stepped forward.

"So, the chicken and the egg are basking in the afterglow of some, er, amorous activities. The egg looks rather down in the mouth, so the chicken asks what's wrong. The egg laughs hollowly and says, 'Well, I guess we answered _that_ question.'"

Several more people laughed, and Hermione stepped back into the circle. Ron gave her a small smile, and she returned it as Minerva came forward, dabbing at her face with a lace-edged hanky.

"What do you get when you cross an elephant and a rhino? Elephino!"

More laughter, and Mr Weasley stepped up. He took a handful of earth in his hand and tossed it into the grave.

"Did you hear about the farmer who won the Order of Merlin? He was out standing in his field."

One by one, the Weasleys came forward, threw in a handful of earth, and told a joke. Mrs Weasley was the last.

Chin quivering, she stood before her son's grave. She tossed in her fistful of dirt and turned to George.

"What do you get when you do a Blasting Hex in a French kitchen?"

"I don't know, Mum. What?"

"Linoleum Blownapart."

George half-laughed, half-groaned and hugged her tight. One by one, the rest of the guests stepped forward to offer their favourite jokes and their condolences.

Finally, Severus stepped forward. Whispers raced around the ring. A muscle in Ron's cheek twitched, and Hermione gripped her wand, just in case.

"What's the difference between a wizard's wand and a policeman's baton?" he asked in his silkiest, darkest tone. Silence fell over the crowd.

"One is for cunning stunts, and the other is for... apprehending criminals."

Ron and Harry both began to roar with laughter, and it spread, a wave of mirth and acceptance. Hermione watched as he shook George's hand, muttering something in his good ear. George looked confused, then angry, then relieved, and she wondered what he'd said, but just then Mrs Weasley's voice rose over the guffaws, magically amplified.

"There's lunch in the garden. We hope you all will join us."

Severus wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten roped into staying for lunch, but he had, and now, five hours later, he stood chatting almost casually with Arthur and Charlie in the garden, holding a pasty and a tumbler of Firewhiskey. Dusk had fallen; lunch had long since become tea and then dinner, and he had to smile because Hermione was laughing, a full-throated roar, her head thrown back, at something Ginny had said, and her joy bubbled up inside him. Stray bits of hair had escaped their plait and were framing her face like a crazed sort of halo in the candlelight, and he wondered for a moment what it would feel like to bury his hands in it. He shook himself. It was clear from thoughts like this as well as the pleasant numbness around his chin that he'd had too much to drink.

_That's odd,_ he thought, squinting at his tumbler. _I've only had three._

A life spent with potions was, necessarily, a life spent with poisons, and over the years he had developed a high tolerance for most of the commoner toxins, including alcohol.

_Perhaps this is another bloody side effect of the bloody connection with that bloody witch who won't bloody stop being pretty._ Even before the thought had fully articulated itself in his mind, he pushed it away, and was relieved when George excused himself from the knot of young people surrounding _her_ and approached him.

"All right," he said, and Severus had to appreciate the lack of a preamble. "Let's do this."

"Here?" he asked, with only the modicum of a sneer.

"Why not? You said it wouldn't take long."

Severus shrugged. "As you wish." He drew his wand, placed it on the side of George's head, and muttered three short incantations. He watched in satisfaction as the flesh around the hole roiled and stretched, before forming itself into an ear with a faint "pop."

"Blimey," said George, putting a hand up to it gingerly, "I didn't think it'd be _that_ easy."

"It was a simple matter of intention," Severus said gruffly, and elaborated when George's expression remained politely blank. "The curse was never intended for you, which means that I, as the caster, could undo it with little difficulty."

There was a clatter and a crash behind them, and both men whirled around, wands at the ready. Molly had dropped her glass.

"Fred?" she whispered, one hand flying to her mouth.

George's face spasmed, but he said almost cheerfully, "Sorry, Mum. Just George. Good news, though: Snape fixed my ear."

That was his cue. He bowed Molly, nodded to George, and strode quickly to the gate, refusing to let himself check to see if Hermione had noticed his exit. He let himself out and Disapparated.

Severus looked up from his book. It was late, so late that he'd assumed Hermione had stayed the night at the Burrow. But no, she was approaching, a fierce pulse of anger and humiliation and sadness, leaving a swath of clean, mended corridor behind her. Trust the witch to be perniciously helpful, even in her fury. Thinking of the many bottles he'd broken and carpets he'd singed in his adolescent rages, he had to admit Hermione's version was tidier.

He pretended to still be engrossed in his reading when she stormed into the room, slamming the door behind her. As young women went, she wasn't given to theatrics, but given that she was, in fact, a young woman, that didn't mean much. He didn't have to encourage her.

"I'm going to kill him," she announced, clearly unsurprised to find him still awake. "I am going to kill him very dead, and then I am going to bring him back to life so I can kill him again."

He looked up from his book. Her hair had, by this point, completely escaped its restraints, and apparently, had decided to take her temper and quite possibly her sanity along for the ride. Her eyes were flashing, her fists were clenched, and, God help him, her chest was heaving. She looked like a woman possessed.

"Surely you can't be referring to the youngest Weasley boy?" he drawled, doing his best to both sound bored and ignore her ire in his veins. Hermione actually snarled at this, and he closed the leather-bound tome, concern mounting. "It defies simple human physiology, how often his foot winds up in his mouth. What did he say this time?"

"It's not what he said, it's what he did," she growled, pacing back and forth in front of him. "The _nerve _of him, can you believe it? 'Let's go into my room and have a chat, 'Mione.' And I, like some sort of idiot, follow him, because I thought he was going to sodding _apologise._"

Severus felt a chill and looked at her closely. He didn't like where this was headed. She had no noticeable bruises, and he knew she was more than capable of wandless defensive magic if necessary. Still, if the lad had laid a finger on her, he would kill him very dead, and then bring him back to life so he could kill him again.

"Did he touch you?" His voice was deadly quiet, and she stopped her pacing.

"What?"

"Did he touch you?" he asked again, fighting to maintain some semblance of self-control. He had gotten to his feet and was standing too close to her, staring down into her face. To her credit, she did not cower. "Did he touch you uninvited? Did he –?"

Hermione finally got the gist and let out a hollow bark of laughter. "No, Ron's just stupid. Criminally stupid, but not actually a criminal. Did you think he'd –?"

She trailed off, searching his face, and seemed to find her answer somewhere on it. She removed herself to an armchair and sat down heavily, transfiguring her dress robes into her usual jeans and jumper as she went.

"Shall I make us some tea?" Severus asked, feeling for all the world like Molly Weasley for what he fervently hoped would be the only time in his life, before realising that he didn't have the proper equipment.

"Yeah, that'd be great, thanks," muttered Hermione, and after a glance around the room, began digging around in her bag. She withdrew a battered teakettle, a battered cardboard packet of teabags, and two blue and white ceramic mugs. She saw him glancing between her bag and the kettle, and she shrugged, setting the bag on the floor beside her.

"It's bigger on the inside."

"So I gathered." He took the supplies and busied himself with them. "So what happened, if he didn't – What happened?"

She put her head in her hands. "It was dreadful. He tried to _seduce_ me, can you imagine? Flowers on the bed, candles, scented oils, the works. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't called me a Mudblood three days previous. It's not even the word itself, you know? I got used to being called it, at school. Just another insult. But Ron meant it to hurt, and so it did. The intention of the thing, you know. I heard what you were saying to George. It's quite promising, we should look into it." She drew a deep breath. "But anyway, I'm Hermione Bloody Granger. I forgave him. It's what I do, it's what I've always done, and he just takes it for granted and thinks I'm going to spread my legs and say oh, yes, take me now, which is patently ridiculous because it's not as if we were even together in the first place! We had one sodding kiss during the battle when we thought we were going to die and he takes that as license for flowers and bath oil and a shag? I'm sorry, but _fuck _that."

Severus felt his lips twitch in spite of himself. He liked this side of her, the fiery, raw, profane side. He suspected not many people were privy to it.

"What did you do to him?" he asked, handing her a mug. "There's no milk, unless you're hoarding that as well."

She shoved one hand down into the bag, and when it reemerged, she handed him a small vial. He uncorked and sniffed. It smelled very much like milk.

"Permanent Freshness Charm?"

She nodded, and held out her mug. "Just a splash, please."

He obliged her and added rather more to his own cup. "So what did you do?"

She grinned maliciously. "Just screamed at him for a bit. Oh, but I amplified my voice so Mrs Weasley could hear. Oh, and I sent a Shriveling Hex straight to the bollocks. It'll wear off in a week or two, but I doubt he knows that."

He grinned back at her. "I wish you'd let me know the party was just getting started. I would have stayed."

She giggled and drew her legs up under her so she was curled sideways in her chair.

"I'm sorry for ranting," she said after a moment, looking up at him from over the rim of her mug.

"I find it refreshing to hear others rail against those I already dislike. That new perspective is invaluable."

They sat in silence as the fire died, lost in their own thoughts. Finally, Hermione stirred and blinked at him for a moment. He steeled himself for whatever probing and uncomfortable question she'd managed to come up with.

But all she said was, "Thank you."

"Excuse me?"

"For listening. For not hexing me out of the room. Just - thank you."

Silence. Soaring, stretching, silence, and he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from hers.

"It's late."

"Yes."

He sighed. "More tea?"

"That'd be lovely."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Okay, so maybe I do go in for Ron-bashing, if the last chapter is any evidence. He's just so fun to make ridiculous. **

**As always, thank you for the reviews! They make me happy and keep me inspired, so please leave one. Let me know what you like, what you don't like, what you're curious about, etc, etc! As usual, all characters belong to JKR. **

* * *

Hermione was drinking her third cup of coffee and repairing the tapestries on the fifth floor when Severus found her the next day.

"Good morning," she said brightly, and handed him a mug.

"You're learning," he replied as he took it.

"Brightest witch of my age," she reminded him.

"And modest, too."

"Hush. What's our plan for the day?"

"I may need another blood sample," he told her. "I've come up with an answer to the question of time."

Hermione leaned forward eagerly, but he held up a hand in protest.

"Coffee," he said. "Just... wait. Please."

She made a little noise of disappointment in the back of her throat and started in on the tapestries again. He really was insufferable in the mornings. She'd have to start leaving a cup for him first thing if she wanted intelligent conversation before lunch. Perhaps she could charm a Muggle coffeemaker to work at Hogwarts. It would take some tinkering, but the mechanism wasn't too complicated...

She left him to his brew and drifted off down the corridor, mending as she went. She liked this work, creating order from chaos, imbuing every stone and statue with protective and defensive spells. She wondered if Healers got the same sense of quiet satisfaction from their work, and answered her own question when she remembered the thrill she'd felt when Severus's pulse had become stronger as a result of her intervention. Perhaps St. Mungo's training programme would be something to look into in a few months, when everything had settled down.

He caught up to her in the prefects' bathroom, where she had repaired the scorched mermaid painting and was wrangling with one of the faucets to the bathtub. It was belching steam at odd intervals, but stopped when Severus spoke to it sternly.

"Sometimes that's all it takes," he said, sitting next to her with his feet dangling into the empty pool. She nodded her thanks and pulled her damp hair up off her neck and into a bedraggled bun.

"What's the time solution?" she asked, swinging her legs over to join his, enjoying the solid "thunk" the heels of her boots made when they came into contact with the wall of the tub.

His eyes crinkled. "Funny you should ask. It's a Time Solution."

"That's what I said."

Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "Who's on first?" he cleared his throat and said in a normal tone, "Have you ever seen a Time-Turner?"

"You're joking, right?"

"What have I ever done to give you the idea that I am in the habit of joking?"

Hermione grimaced ran a hand over her hair. He had a point, though she was surprised Minerva hadn't spread the word to her professors all those years ago. "I spent almost two years being fourteen. That's how I took all those classes third year. If I never see a Time-Turner again, it'll be too soon. Which I won't, I suppose, because we accidentally destroyed the ones in the Ministry."

He brushed this aside. "The solution inside a Time-Turner is often inaccurately described as liquid time. It's not, of course; time itself is more of a plasma. The Time Solution allows the Time-Turner to act as a sort of homing device, but through time rather than space. Usually the precise when is determined by the number of turns of the device. A slight modification would mean we could key it into the pattern the blood displays when put under the Imperius."

"Instead of specifying the number of hours, we give it free reign to let it seek out the paisley pattern?"

"Exactly. From there, it would be the work of a moment to obtain a readout of how far back the pattern occurred."

"That," she said, leaping to her feet, "Is absolutely brilliant. Where do we start?"

"Library," they said in unison, and Hermione had to giggle at the twin looks of horror they exchanged.

By evening, they had a plan. The Solution took three days to brew, and in that time, she would fashion a Time-Turner, with the modifications written into the walls of the hourglass itself. If the spells worked, they would lock onto the historical pattern in a drop of blood pipetted into a chamber in the top and provide an estimate of when the curse had been placed. The literature was fuzzy on how precise it would be, but Hermione was hoping for a six-hour window.

They'd worked straight through lunch, so she was starving when they finally decided to pack it in. They were almost to the kitchens when she stopped on the second to last step, a horrible idea bubbling up into consciousness.

"Severus, once this works and word spreads, what's to stop people from Imperiusing each other for a moment or two before they commit a crime willfully?"

He leaned against the wall and rubbed his temples. "Nothing."

"So why are we bothering?"

He sighed. "All the Time-Turners were smashed two years ago. Ours may be a short-term advance, but it's important _now_. To falsely plead Imperius is the basest form of cowardice. To hide behind someone else's skirts, to pretend you were coerced, instead of taking responsibility for your misdeeds, your atrocities, is iniquitous. Justice must be done. Veritaserum is fallible. One can acclimatise to it -" He broke off, eyes widening. "_Dammit._"

She loved listening to him talk, the cadence of his voice; the way words dripped from his lips was intoxicating, enthralling. The oath snapped her back into reality.

"Sir?" In her startlement, she regressed to formality.

"I may need to beg a favour."

"Anything, as long as it can wait until after dinner. I become a snappish breed of she-dog if I'm not fed regularly."

"Well, we certainly can't have that."

They found Minerva and Poppy in the kitchens, sharing a sandwich and a cup of cocoa. The witches waved them over to join them, and to Hermione's surprise, Severus obeyed.

"How's it coming?" Poppy asked Hermione, handing a plate of cold meat and cheese. Then, to Severus, "And how is your wound?"

Hermione struggled to swallow the impolitely large hunk of cheese she'd stuffed in her mouth and give an overview of their progress, but before she could, Severus tugged down the collar of his shirt to allow the matron to inspect his scar.

"What did you use?"

He didn't even seem to register her accusatory glare.

"There was antidote left over from Arthur's incident. It was simple enough to turn it into a salve."

"You might have mentioned that," Poppy fumed.

"I saw no need. The wound is healed."

"It could have been infected, the antidote could have gone off in the intervening two years, the application of the salve could have dislodged the scabs-"

"It wasn't, it didn't, and it didn't. I am no longer a convalescent. I have convalesced, and therefore no longer require you to yammer at me."

"You're an impossible git."

"And you're a meddlesome old bag."

"Don't be fooled," Minerva murmured to Hermione, hiding a smile behind her mug. "They've actually grown rather fond of one another over the years. This is just for old time's sake."

Hermione giggled and returned to her meal as the pair continued to trade barbs. It was rare to see Severus spar with someone who wasn't terrified of him. Perhaps she could pick up a few pointers on how Poppy managed.

Once she was out of insults, Poppy rose, murmuring something about restocking the infirmary. Minerva drifted away with her, leaving Hermione and Severus alone, lingering over their cocoa.

"You said you had a favour to ask?"

He nodded, eyes hooded. "If my hangover this morning was anything to go by, the connection has affected me alcohol tolerance, and it may have similarly impaired my ability to withstand Veritaserum. I would prefer to discover to what degree before I take the stand next week.

"And you want me to do what, exactly?"

"Interrogate me."

"Under Veritaserum."

"That's the idea, yes."

She folded her arms across her chest and gave him her best now-then-young-man-where-has-your-good-sense-got-off-to glare. It had always worked on Ron and Harry, and it was no less successful on him. He sighed and inspected his cocoa.

"I can't do it on my own, and Albus is dead. I have no friends. You're here, you're not involved in my prosecution, and you aren't without intelligence. More importantly, you're not a gossip. If I'm wrong, if I still am able to withstand it, you'll have nothing to worry about. If I'm right, well, consider it an early birthday present. You always did enjoy asking questions."

Hermione sighed. She couldn't blame him. She'd want to do a trial run if she were in his place, but she was uncomfortable.

"All right, but under one condition."

"What?"

"That I take it, too."

His shook his head, his hair falling to obscure his face as it often did when he was uncertain, but before she lost sight of his eyes she saw in them once again that haunting, haunted, bewildered look.

"Why?" His voice was barely audible.

"I don't like the power dynamics of the thing. I'm not going to interrogate you. We can have a free exchange of embarrassing truths, but I'm not going to stand over you and - and _harvest_ information. It's not right."

He shook his head again, and steadfastly refused to meet her eyes. "It's a confounding factor. It could affect your magic, and that in turn might affect the part bound to me, blurring the results. I need to know how it will be next week. Please."

It was the desperation in his voice that did it in the end.

"Fine," she sniffed. "I don't like it, but I'll do it."

He stood abruptly. "Now, then."

She followed him to his office, and then, to her surprise, through the door to his quarters. The sitting room was spare but cosy and immaculately clean, but more importantly, every available surface housed books. It was, she decided, very Snape. And, she had to admit, very her as well. She wouldn't mind spending a lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon curled in the armchair by the fire.

"I'll start with five drops," he told her, gesturing to the sofa. "One less than when I was last on trial, but two more than I should take if I'm no longer immune to the effects."

She sat and watched as he tipped back his head slightly, closed his eyes, and caught five drops of the clear potion on the tip of his tongue. His eyes went dull almost immediately and he sat on the far end of the sofa.

"Er, could you please state your name?" Hermione asked, casting about wildly.

"Severus Tobias Snape."

"Tobias – that's after your father?"

"Yes."

_Get on with it, Granger. You won't be able to tell if it's working or not if you ask him benign questions, now will you?_

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and asked him the question she'd been dying to ask since her fourth year.

"Could you please tell me why you became a Death Eater?"

"I was seventeen. I had no friends, no family. I didn't fit in. It allowed me to be a part of something bigger. It was a way to come up in the world, to gain status, to put my talents to use. I've always had an aptitude for the Dark Arts – had to have, if I was to survive the holidays. I was so angry all the time, poisoned by testosterone and loneliness. Joining provided an outlet for my rage, my hatred. My father was a Muggle. It was too easy to extrapolate from him that all Muggles were worthless."

"And Muggleborns?" She couldn't stop herself. She had to know how someone who had loved a Muggleborn witch so deeply could have been a part of the group that sought their eradication from society.

"I have never cared about blood status. It is more logical to draw the line between Muggles and wizards,."

"So you think Muggles are lesser beings?"

"I did when I joined the Dark Lord. Now I do not."

"Why?"

"I discovered their science. It astounds me, how much they've learned over such a short time."

"Why do you think that is?"

He stared off for a moment, contemplating.

"Wizards use magic as a crutch. It eases our lives to the point where there is little need for progress. We grow fat and lazy. We take it for granted. Spells work, and that's enough. Not for you, though. Nor me. That's something I like about you. You don't stop. You want to know why and how and wherefore. You want to make magic better. Stronger. Cleaner. Is it because you're Muggleborn, or because you're clever?"

Hermione had gone beet red. Severus _liked_ her? He thought her clever? Her voice trembled.

"A combination of both, probably. Why were you so cruel in school?"

He paused for a long time before answering,

"I was rarely truly cruel. Strict, yes. Potions is a dangerous subject, and there is a very slim margin for error."

"But Neville-"

"I maintain that Longbottom was an abysmal student. He only scraped by because you hissed in his ear for five years. He was a danger to everyone in that room, and I refused to be responsible for any more deaths."

"You terrified him so much he could barely think straight! You can't honestly have thought that that was the best way to keep him in check."

"I kept waiting for that fabled Gryffindor courage to rear its annoying head. But Longbottom wasn't whom you meant when you said 'cruel.' Not really."

He searched her face with an intensity that shouldn't have been possible under the potion's influence, and in that moment of realisation, the universe shifted ever so slightly on its axis.

"I have no excuse for what I said about your teeth. It _was_ cruel, and I apologise. I went to the hospital wing after class was dismissed, but you had already left."

"You could have sent an owl."

"I could, but I did not. Perhaps I should have."

There was a pause as she looked at him, really _looked _at him, and wanted to caress away the premature lines on his face.

"You're not affected by the Veritaserum, are you?"

"No. My tolerance remains intact."

"So all of this, everything you've said - you were lying?"

"Not once."

Hermione felt her bottom lip begin to tremble. This was horrible, exhausting, and he seemed to be playing games with her.

"Why?" she asked miserably. "Why tell me any of it? Why let me continue once you realised you remained unaffected?"

He ducked his head so his hair fell in front of his face once more. "You offered to take it with me. That was… kind. Even if you hadn't, you deserve the answers. You didn't press beyond what I owe you, and what you did ask was phrased politely. You deserve to know, and I need the practise."

"Practise? So doubting your tolerance was a ruse?"

"Certainly not. I had every reason to believe it had gone the way of my alcohol tolerance. I am merely relieved it didn't."

"So you can withhold information at your trial?" she spat, not caring how rude she was being.

He froze. "So I can tell the truth willingly, instead of having it dragged from me. It is one thing to be chemically induced into veracity, and entirely another to speak the unbridled truth freely, without coercion, no matter the consequence. Absolution is meaningless if it's not painful."

At this, Hermione lost the battle she'd been fighting and her tears spilled over. He looked at her in puzzlement.

"How have I upset you?"

"You're a natural Occlumens. You spent years as a spy. Telling the unvarnished truth has got to come about as easily to you as – as Quidditch does to me. And you're saying you're glad you're still resistant to Veritaserum because it will allow you to feel more misery during a trial in which the Ministry will attempt to lock you away for saving the world as we know it?"

"They deserve to know the whole truth, and even if I am acquitted, it is only right that it be unpleasant for me."

Hermione bristled.

"Let's see," she said, beginning to tick things off on her fingers. "Your best friend, who got in a snit and didn't speak to you for years, was killed by your master despite your best efforts to keep her safe. Oh, don't look like that. Harry told me the whole story at Fred's funeral, but I'd already worked most of it out on my own in the Shack. He just filled in the gaps. _Anyway,_ despite loathing him, you saved Harry's life more times than I can count. You kept the students at Hogwarts from being tortured into insanity by the Carrows. You risked your life every day for years and years_, _without so much as a 'thank you' from any of us. The Order treated you like scum, Dumbledore used and manipulated you, and as for Voldemort, I will bet all the Galleons in my pockets against all the Galleons in your pockets that if I used _Inuria revelio_ on you, you'd light up like big _Crucio _Christmas tree. Everyone on our side believed you to be a traitor, _and yet you still kept working for the light. _Oh, right, I forgot to mention: a dirty great snake bit through your neck AND YOU ALMOST DIED. How can you say you deserve more punishment, more pain?"

She knew her voice had risen to a level of shrillness that was usually only audible to dogs and small rodents, but she didn't care because he was staring at her with the oddest expression on his face, as if he wanted to believe her but couldn't quite get there.

"I've killed people," he said quietly. "Tortured them. Broken up families and destroyed lives."

"I know. But you've saved more than you destroyed. That's all anyone can hope for, isn't it?"

He let out a bark than in a different conversation might have been a laugh. "You have a peculiar sense of optimism."

Hermione grimaced and scooted forward. She took his hand in her smaller one and tucked one hand under his chin, forcing him to look at her. She was willing to bet her research stipend that not once person in Severus Snape's entire, bleak life had ever tried very hard to make him feel anything but worthless. She suspected she was venturing out onto thin ice, but he didn't have the tense, coiled feel of someone preparing to reach for his wand, and besides, his hexes didn't work on her anymore.

"You are a hero," she told him firmly and slowly, enunciating each word. "You are flawed, you are scarred, and you are scared, but so is everyone else who survived. Don't you dare discount what you've done for us. The good you've done. Don't you _dare_."

"I don't know how not to," he said, so softly she could barely hear.

"It's a good thing you're brilliant, then," she said crisply, releasing him, "You'll learn quickly. And it's good that you're stuck with me for the duration, because I am an _excellent _nag."

"What did I do to deserve this?" he muttered, his head in his hands.

Hermione fixed him with her cheekiest grin. "Well, somewhere in your youth and childhood, you must have done something good."

"That's not how I meant it, and you know it." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Wait. Was that-did you just quote_ The Sound of Music_at me?"

Hermione felt herself flush. "I didn't think you would get the reference."

"My father saw to it that we had a television."

"But _The Sound of Music_? Really?"

"If you tell anyone I will make sure you die a slow and excruciating death."

"Duly noted."

"Now go away, please."

She stood, trying not to let the hurt in her eyes show. When he sighed, she knew she'd failed.

"You were right," he said roughly. "I rarely let down my defences, and when I do, the aftermath is unpleasant. I am going to drink a lot in a short while to try to stave off a panic attack, and I would prefer to do so in privacy."

She felt an overwhelming surge of warmth for him, and a muscle in his cheek twitched. She recognized it, and went.

* * *

The morning of his trial, Severus woke with a start, immediately aware that something was off. Even as he scrabbled for his wand, though, some base, reptilian part of his brain registered the smell of coffee, and decided for him that if the person standing by his bed had brought it, he or she probably didn't intend to kill him.

As he sat up, wand forgotten, the door closed and she was gone, leaving behind the faint scent of freshly washed woman and, to his bemusement, a Muggle coffee maker on the bedside table. As it gurgled merrily away, he wondered how she'd broken through his wards. And how she'd gotten Muggle technology to work in the castle. And how the smell of her was enough to make him uncomfortably aroused.

_It's been so long that at this point, a sidelong glance from Blast-Ended Skrewt would probably have the same effect, _he decided firmly, and slid out of bed. His dress robes had been laid out and transfigured into something almost stylish, and a large bottle of shampoo stood on his desk with a Post-It note that read, simply, "Use me."

He began to swear loudly and colorfully, a string of profanity picked up over years of insult and injury, but he took the shampoo with him into the shower and followed the instructions.

By the time he was dried and dressed, the coffee had finished. He decided it didn't make up for breaking into his rooms, interfering with his wardrobe, and not-so-subtly insulting his coiffure, but it was hot and black and wet, and he felt himself returning to a semblance of what passed for good humour for him as he scalded his tongue on a second cup. He had three hours to kill before he needed to leave for the Ministry, so he picked up the latest issue of _Ars Alchemia. _

As he did, there was a fizzle of nervousness and a knock at the door. He wrenched it open, and glared down at Hermione.

"Why you bother knocking is beyond me. What have you done to my wards?" he snarled at her, and stalked back to his chair and his journal. She followed him in, but didn't close the door.

"What?" he snapped, her anxiety making him edgy, and the words fell from her lips in a jumble.

"Your wards are fine, but they recognise me. I - I wanted to ask if you needed anything from Diagon Alley. There are a couple of errands I need to run in London before noon, so I'm going down early. I got an owl last night from Kingsley saying I might need to testify, but I would have come anyway. I just wanted to say good luck, and if you – just – well, good luck, is all."

"I hardly think luck will enter into it. The Ministry-"

"Severus," she said placidly, "Shut up."

And she leaned forward and kissed him on the jaw, just below his ear.

In the moment it took him to register what had happened, she was gone again. He sat very still, his hand pressed to the spot, wondering whether she'd meant to aim for the cheek or the neck, and what very different meanings those two possibilities held. His journal forgotten, he began to strategise.

At precisely twelve o'clock, Severus Snape stepped into Courtroom Ten at the Ministry of Magic and took his place in the chair in the centre of the hall. He knew the drill, but this time, at least, the chains remained where they hung. Kingsley Shacklebolt sat before him on the dais, surrounded by what could only be the jury. Not a full Wizengamot trial, then. Though maybe it was- with so many members killed it would necessarily be smaller than before. He took a deep, steadying breath and a flash of brown in the corner of his eye caught his attention as Hermione slid in beside Molly Weasley. She met his eyes briefly, and looked away as Shacklebolt began to speak.

"Let the 14 May, 1998 trial of Severus Tobias Snape, known Death Eater, commence. Interrogator, Kingsley Shacklebolt, acting Minister for Magic and associate head of the Order of the Phoenix. Witnesses for the defense, Harry James Potter, Hermione Jean Granger, Molly and Arthur Weasley, George Weasley, Neville Longbottom, and the portrait of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. If the accused will submit to interrogation under Veritaserum?

Severus nodded curtly, and a small, stumpy man came forward with a vial.

"Five drops," said Kingsley, and Severus tilted his head back.

"Now. Is it true that you have been a Death Eater since your graduation from Hogwarts in 1978?"

"It is."

"And is it true that you acted as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix from –" he consulted his notes, "1980 until the present?"

"From February of 1980 until 2 May, 1998," Severus corrected him. "Since the Dark Lord's death, I have not spied in any capacity."

"Thank you. February of 1980 until twelve days ago, is that correct?"

"It is."

"Will you tell the Wizengamot why?"

"I will."

He met Hermione's eyes for a second time and he felt a familiar fizzle, but for once, it was of calm. Blissful, serene, peaceful calm, and she was telegraphing it to him, stronger than he'd ever felt anything from her before. He let it settle over him and he began to speak.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Somewhat angsty chapter, I apologise. I promise that the next one will be super fun and great. Keep the reviews pouring in! **

_He met Hermione's eyes for a second time and he felt a familiar fizzle, but for once, it was of calm. Blissful, serene, peaceful calm, and she was telegraphing it to him, stronger than he'd ever felt anything from her before. He let it settle over him and he began to speak._

"I have only ever called one person my friend. We met when we were children – nine, I think, or maybe eight. She would play in the park with her sister, and I would watch them from the periphery. They were happy children, well-off, from the other end of the village. That would usually be enough to keep me away, but she showed signs of magic, remarkably controlled magic for one so young, and from a Muggle family with no one to teach her. When I saw she was a witch, I made myself known and told her about Hogwarts. We became – I believe the colloquial is 'chummy?'"

He raised an eyebrow slightly and heard a chuckle from the back. He went on.

"She hugged me the day she got her Hogwarts letter. I had never been hugged before. I mention it not to make you pity me, but to make you understand what she was to me. She was the first thing that was ever good in my life. The first glimmer of hope. She was, even then, a beacon.

It is difficult to be poor, to be ugly, to be unwanted, to be abused, to be intelligent, and to be Sorted into Slytherin. All of these things are difficult, but when they converge into one eleven-year-old boy, he is an instant pariah. She remained friendly to me, but she was a Gryffindor. She had other friends, other pursuits. We drifted, as so many childhood friends do. She would never have been enough to keep me from descending into the Dark. I see that now, as I couldn't then. It was the constellation of a thousand different factors, not merely the absence of her regard, that led me there.

She hated it, hated me for drifting toward it, and we stopped speaking my fifth year at Hogwarts. My fault, of course. In a fit of rage, I called her a Mudblood, and she never forgave me. But no matter how far down that Dark path I tread, she remained, shining, this paragon of kindness in my mind. A reminder that I had once, briefly, been worthy of affection.

I loved her, of course. Loved and hated her. That's the danger of loving, isn't it? It opens you to pain you never could have dreamed of. Seeing her with another boy, seeing him become her husband, it ripped me apart. I took the Mark willingly, endured the pain of it, because it didn't compare to losing her. Nothing could. Nothing has.

And then I overheard the Prophecy. Sybill Trewlawney's only true prophecy, and I was there, in the Hog's Head Pub, trying to drown myself in drink. '_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches ... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies.'_ I was discovered and thrown from the pub before I heard the full prophecy, and like a schoolboy waving my hand in class, desperate for approval, I relayed what I had heard to the Dark Lord.

The funny thing is, the prophecy described two families equally well. Alice and Frank Longbottom had defied the Dark Lord thrice, and she was due at the end of July."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the witness stand, but he kept his eyes forward.

"But, as you all know, the Dark Lord decided it referred to Harry Potter. Except he wasn't Harry Potter, not yet. Harry Potter hadn't been born. Harry Potter was the size of a lima bean, swimming obliviously away in the womb of the woman I had loved since I knew what the word meant. And that put her in danger."

At this, the room erupted, and Shacklebolt had to rap sternly on the lectern for a full minute before an uneasy quiet fell again.

"I went to Albus as soon as I realised what he meant to do. I begged him. I was half-mad with pre-emptive grief and despair and guilt. I had as good as sentenced her to death. I told him I would do anything, so he turned me. Made me a spy. A double agent. I agreed, but then, I would have agreed to anything. Albus sent them into hiding, and they remained safe, at least for a while.

That brings us to Halloween, 1981. You all know, of course, what happened. The Potters were betrayed by their Secret-Keeper. The Dark Lord killed James, and went back on his word to me. He had said he would spare her, but he didn't. He was impatient, she stood in the way, and he brushed her aside like you would a fly.

Two men betrayed me that night. Albus promised she'd be protected, and the Dark Lord promised he wouldn't kill her. But he did. She _died_."

He broke off, throat tight. Shacklebolt whispered something, and a glass of water appeared next to him. He sipped it slowly, and reached once more for the blanket of calm that Hermione was extending to him.

"Albus, in the end, was better able to manipulate me because he was able to understand my grief. It was an agony bourne out of love, and thus utterly incomprehensible to the Dark Lord. Albus knew even then that what the infant Potter had managed was not complete, that one day the Dark Lord would return, and that night I swore to protect all that was left of _her_ on this earth when that time came. And so I did. For years, I did, with everything I had."

He fell silent and glanced upwards. There were tears coursing down Hermione's face, but the calm she projected was unwavering. Her mind proved, as always, to be impressive.

"Thank you, Severus." Shacklebolt's voice was pitched even lower than usual. "We have, as you can imagine, several questions."

He nodded.

"First, the death of Albus Dumbledore. You killed him, did you not?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"He asked me to."

The Minister turned to the portrait next to him and asked, "Albus, is this true?"

"It is."

"Would you please tell the Wizengamot why?"

"Voldemort had ordered Draco Malfoy to do it, as punishment for Lucius's transgressions. Draco tried, unsuccessfully, in a number of ways, but he failed, as I hoped he would fail. I did not want his soul so damaged by murder."

"But you didn't mind risking Severus Snape's soul?"

"He asked me the same thing, but you must remember, it was not murder when he killed me. Consider it to be more of an assisted suicide. I had been cursed by a powerful Dark object earlier in the year, and my time was running out. It was a kindness."

Severus snorted. Murder, suicide – it had amounted to the same thing, in the end.

"My other motivation, the more important one, was to ensure that someone who had the school's best interests in heart remained in place at Hogwarts after Voldemort took over. Killing me would make him appear to be loyal. He would maintain his cover and be given the school."

Shacklebolt nodded. "We will come to that. But first – the Battle over Little Whinging. Severus, you were there, correct, fighting alongside the Death Eaters?"

"Yes."

"And you did not forewarn the Order."

"I didn't have time. I was Summoned directly into battle. I didn't know."

"Molly?"

She stepped forward, chin up. "As I'm sure you're aware, Minister, Severus always walked an unimaginably fine line between providing the Order with information and maintaining his cover as a Death Eater. He had to feed misinformation to You-Know-Who and relay to us the Death Eaters' activity as much as he could without being killed. I tended to him after he'd been tortured by You-Know-Who. Several times, poor dear. I still don't know how he withstood it. He was never completely trusted. He was too close to the Order for that. Was he tortured even after Albus was gone?"

"Severus?" Shacklebolt asked.

"She is correct," he said quietly, forbidding himself to wince at the memories. "The torture didn't stop after I killed Albus. It had become habit by then, I suppose. And as blind in many respects as the Dark Lord was, he never was one to put all of his eggs in one basket, particularly not one that had spent years swinging on Albus's arm."

Shacklebolt nodded again. "Back to the Battle, then, if you please. Arthur Weasley, can you tell me what you saw that night?"

Arthur rose. "It was all a blur, of course. The sky was full of Death Eaters in flight, and He Who Must Not Be Named was there. I was riding with Fred, but I did see Severus at several points, aiming for Death Eaters instead of Order members."

"Thank you, Arthur. George Weasley, you were injured that night by the accused, were you not?"

George got to his feet, smiling lopsidedly. "I was, Minister. He lopped my ear off with _Sectumsempra._"

"That is a spell of your own invention, Severus?"

"Correct."

"How is it, then, George, that you now have two ears? My understanding was that there was no way to heal _Sectumsempra, _as it is a Dark curse."

"Ah, well, yes, you see, Snape healed it last week. Said that because his intention had been to curse the Death Eater behind me, it was reversible."

There was an outbreak of murmuring in the Wizengamot, and Kingsley rapped on the lectern again.

"Thank you, George. Now we come to the accused's tenure at Hogwarts as Headmaster. Neville Longbottom, could you please recount your impression of Severus Snape as Headmaster?"

Neville got to his feet unsteadily. He stared down at Severus, unblinking, for several seconds, then cleared his throat.

"I spent most of my seventh year at Hogwarts in battle with the Death Eaters who had taken over the school. Professor Snape, of course, was among my targets. The majority of my punishments came from the Carrows, though. Professor Snape had to intervene twice to keep them from Crucioing me too harshly. To my knowledge, he never Crucioed a student. And when he caught me trying to steal something from his office, he only gave me detention with Hagrid, which I thought odd. I received worse from him as a second year for melting a cauldron in class."

"Thank you, Mr. Longbottom. Harry Potter, you saw the accused being attacked by Lord Voldemort's familiar on the evening of 2 May. Could you please describe to the court what occurred?"

"Ron, Hermione and I went to the Shrieking Shack to kill Nagini, Tom's familiar. Professor Snape was there, and Tom –"

"Excuse me, Mr Potter," said a querulous female voice from the back, "But who is Tom?"

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Potter replied politely. "His name. It anagramizes to 'I am Lord Voldemort.' Bit stupid, when you think about it, really."

Shacklebolt and Severus both fought smiles as the Wizengamot all but fell to pieces.

"SILENCE," the Minister bellowed at last. "Continue, please, Harry."

"Professor Snape was there in the Shack. Tom explained he had to kill him in order to gain mastery over his wand – long story, not relevant right now – and he had Nagini attack him. Before he passed out, Professor Snape gave me several memories, which I took to view in Dumbledore's Pensieve. I can confirm that everything he has said today has been true. I have seen altered memories before; Professor Snape's were intact and exactly as he told you today. In what he believed to be his dying act, he gave me the information I needed to defeat Tom for good, and I am of the mind that that alone would enough to exonerate him."

He sat back down and Severus stared up at him. Sometime since leaving Hogwarts a year ago, the boy had finally harnessed his power, and had found some poise to go along with it.

Shacklebolt's voice boomed once again over the whispering hall. "Which brings us to Miss Granger, I believe."

Hermione stood. Her feet were braced at shoulder-width, and her eyes were blazing. She was pale, but the calm Severus felt from her did not falter.

"We collected his memories and left him in the Shack to die, Minister. It wasn't until we were halfway back to the castle that I put it all together. I realized how blind I'd been, how blind we all had been, and I Apparated back to the Shack. Harry, Ron and I had spent several months on a mission, and I had first-aid supplies – sorry, that's medical equipment – in my bag. He was bleeding out, so I healed him as best I could and gave him a blood transfusion."

"Can you please describe briefly for the court what a blood transfusion is and how it has affected both of you?"

She complied, her voice crisp and clear, and Severus felt a thrill of pride in her. She was radiant.

"You and Severus have been conducting research together since his recovery, correct?"

"Yes, sir. Our connection has provided a valuable window into previously untested magical theory. And I'm happy to announce that thanks to him, we've discovered a way to determine whether someone was operating under the Imperius curse at a specific point in time, something I'm sure will come in useful during your trials of _real_ Death Eaters."

Severus rolled his eyes in the resultant din. 'Thanks to him' indeed. He'd brewed the potion, to be sure, and bore the burns from it, but she'd sacrificed two nights of sleep to do the spellwork. How very like a Gryffindor to refuse to take responsibility.

"Miss Granger, Professor Dumbledore has mentioned you are an excellent judge of human character. Your familiar is half-Kneazle, correct?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly. She clearly hadn't been expecting this.

"And do you trust Severus Snape?"

"Implicitly."

The word had been addressed to Shacklebolt, but Severus felt its impact in his stomach, a spreading warmth amidst the calm.

"Severus, the fact remains that you were a Death Eater for eighteen years. Do you believe you ought to be cleared of all charges? Do your actions for the Light outweigh those for the Dark?"

Complete and utter silence fell, and he found himself searching the crowd until he met a familiar pair of eyes. He stared into the green, a final paroxysm of grief making him gasp, and then he wrenched himself away and sought out Hermione's face. Her brown eyes were impossibly wide, and her lips were parted as she leaned forward in her chair. Her calm was, for the first time, beginning to fracture, and Severus took a deep breath.

"It is undeniable that my actions as a Death Eater caused harm. Irreparable harm. I regret it deeply, and if I could undo the pain I have inflicted, I would. However," he continued, and a glimmer of hope began to blossom on Hermione's face, "I was only truly a Death Eater for eighteen months as a teenager, and I have already been tried for those crimes. Ever since Lord Voldemort chose to kill Lily Potter's son, I have worked for the Light. It was necessary that I continue to act as a Death Eater so I could continue to be a useful weapon for the Order.

George Weasley mentioned intention. It was not my intention to curse him, and thus the wound he incurred from me could be healed. This is a guiding magical principle. Intention can turn an ordinary spell into a weapon, and intention can turn ostensibly Dark curses into forces for good. Mr Potter demonstrated twelve days ago that _Expelliarmus_ can be used to kill. Voldemort used _Wingardium Leviosa, _a spell taught to first-year students, to incapacitate and humiliate. And _Avada Kedavra_ can be used to bring a quick and painless death to a terminally ill patient. It is intention that shapes our magic, that brings it into the Light or pushes it into Darkness, and my intentions were good.

It is not for me to decide whether my actions are enough to exonerate me. It is not for me to decide whether I can be forgiven. I simply offer that I believe I will be a greater force for good outside Azkaban than inside of it. And so, I subjugate myself to the justice of the Wizengamot."

As the final 't' of the word clicked around the stone room, he looked up. Hermione was sobbing now, huge, ugly, gasping sobs, and Molly Weasley was mopping her own face with a large handkerchief. Harry inclined his head, and George flashed him another crooked grin. Kingsley Shacklebolt turned to the assembly behind him.

"In the 14 May, 1998 case of Ministry of Magic v. Severus Snape, all those in favor of finding the accused guilty, please stand."

Two figures slowly got to their feet. Two. Shacklebolt had to raise his voice to be heard over the hubbub.

"All those in favor of Severus Snape's complete exoneration, please stand."

Two, three, five, seven, eleven … the entire body of the Wizengamot was rising to its feet, and someone began to applaud. As the ovation spread, Severus felt all color leave his face and his vision began to narrow to a point in front of him. His breath began to quicken.

_Not here,_ he thought furiously, _Please not here._

Time had lost all meaning when a small hand gripped his arm and a potion was forced into his hand.

"Calming Draught," Hermione said. "Let's get you out of here."

* * *

Hermione Apparated them neatly to the front step of Number Twelve, glad she still could after such a long time away. She bundled Severus inside, silenced Mrs Black's shrieks with a glare, and called for Kreacher. He appeared with a _crack_ and she hissed requests at him as Severus began to shake.

She got him as far as the sofa in the library. Despite the Calming Draught, he was breathing like he'd just finished a marathon, and his eyes were fixed on some invisible point in front of him. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he seemed not to be crying so much as leaking.

"Severus, look at me," she said quietly, but he seemed not to hear her. She knelt before him and took his face between her hands. "Look at me," she ordered again, more firmly, and somewhere deep within his eyes there was a flicker of recognition.

"It's over. You're safe, and you don't have to do that again. You were brilliant. I'm so proud of you."

He seemed to be listening, and he brought his hands up to grip her wrists a little too firmly, holding onto her as if she were a lifeline, and she thought about what he'd at the outset of the trial.

"Severus, I am going to hug you. Is that all right?"

He nodded, and she stood, bringing his head to rest against her stomach. She wrapped her arms around him, and after a moment, he mirrored her actions. She slowly stroked circles down his back and felt the trembling of his too-thin body, gasps interrupting the tremors as he fought to keep breathing.

She began to talk about everything and nothing, describing Shell Cottage and its isolated beauty, summarizing an article she'd read recently about Muggle physics, drifting from topic to topic, slowly widening the circles on his back. He tugged at her and she moved to sit where he gestured, her back against the arm of the sofa. Her heart broke a little when he moved to lie next to her, nestling his head on her chest, and he slid one thin, muscular arm over her stomach. She twined her arms around him, stroking his hair, surprised at how soft it was, and felt his racing heart as he pressed himself more closely to her.

"Keep talking," he managed between gulps of air, "Please."

She did. Hermione Granger was good at many things, but talking was perhaps what she was best at. She babbled on and on, about elf rights and Healing and her childhood cat, her first trip to Diagon Alley, the Granger family's Christmas traditions, her favorite scone recipe, interrupting herself every so often to reassure Severus that he was safe and that she was there.

Eventually his breathing slowed and the shaking subsided. Hermione fell silent, reluctant to release him, unwilling to untwine her fingers from his hair. Her breaths slowed to match his, and as they drifted off to sleep, she couldn't remember ever feeling this safe.

* * *

Severus woke first, disoriented, and was puzzling through how best to disentangle himself from Hermione and bolt off to someplace not so mortifying when she tightened her arms around him and let out a little sleepy, contented moan.

_Oh, bugger all,_ he snapped at himself. _I am a free man for the first time since the eighties, and there is a breast __**right there**__. I'm staying put until she requests otherwise. _

But all good things must end, and a few minutes later she yawned and stretched, releasing him. He sat up warily, ready for recrimination, but all she said was,

"That was a lovely nap. I'm starving. Do you like pizza?"

"I've never had pizza," Severus said, confused. Why wasn't she fleeing?

"Never had – well, I suppose it's not exactly in the house elves' repertoire. Come on. Change into Muggle clothes. Molly wanted us to come to dinner at the Burrow, but I made your excuses, at least for tonight. I thought this might happen. You can buy me dinner as a thank-you."

She grinned at him over her shoulder as she ambled out of the library, leaving him in a shambles on the couch. What an odd day he was having.


End file.
